Lithium
by Suzan Gray
Summary: The smallest change in details can lead to vastly different outcomes. When Harry finds Tom Riddle's diary in his second year, he befriends the entity that resides within. This simple act results in a ripple effect that tears the story as we know it apart, causing a descent into the madness that is the human psyche. (Slow burn, HP/TR slash)
1. Chapter One

**A/N: **Honestly, this is an idea that has haunted me for a very, VERY long time so I'm a 100% committed to it. I have no idea how good this is, whether the idea even makes sense or not, if my characterization is at all correct, so I'm hoping to get some constructive criticism concerning that if it's not too much to ask. Aside from that, please enjoy this brain-child of mine: a retelling of our favourite story, with astronomically different outcomes where canon is ripped apart. Rating will change to M in the course of the story.

* * *

LITHIUM

**CHAPTER ONE**

The diary speaks.

Harry has never seen anything like it, but maybe this is normal for wizards. In between enchanted ceilings, animated chess pieces and a cloak that makes you invisible, a talking diary is probably nothing special.

_Tom Riddle _is the entity that resides within it—Harry doesn't know who or what Tom Riddle actually is, but his handwriting is elegant and his choice of words eloquent, and so he evokes curiosity.

While Harry is sure he has never heard the name before, it still seems to mean something to him, almost as though Riddle is a friend he had when he was very small, and had half-forgotten. But this is absurd. He never had friends before Hogwarts, Dudley made sure of that. Yet the feeling of familiarity persists, tugging at something inside of him, like fingertips pulling on strings.

Tom Riddle asks him a very simple question: how did he come by his diary? Harry plans a very simple answer: someone tried to flush it down the toilet. In an alternate universe, this answer would've lead to a chain of events that ensured the destruction of the diary in question, as well as the ghost residing within it. In turn, any chance for redemption would be lost. At the end of their journey, there would only be death.

This time, however, Harry takes a moment longer to consider his reply, and writes down something different when he realizes his first answer wouldn't really explain _how _he found it.

This seemingly innocent adjustment, resulting from a mere two seconds longer of consideration, twists and bends and breaks fate utterly within the ink of a single sentence, and creates a new reality altogether from the shattered pieces of its original.

_"I found it on the floor in the girl's bathroom." _

With this, destiny howls in pain as it is ripped apart, and Harry eagerly awaits Riddle's reply, oblivious to the change he has inspired.

_"That is rather odd. The previous holder must have dropped it." _

_"Previous holder?" _Harry writes down quickly, almost blotting the page.

_"Yes, this diary was first found by another student, though it's of no importance now. I'm sure they won't miss it if they were careless enough to lose it in a bathroom of all things." _

Harry supposes that is true—the previous holder even tried flushing it down the toilet. Maybe they finally figured out the diary had a mind of its own and got scared of it. Maybe there _was _something wrong with it as Ron implied earlier, but Harry doesn't think so. Aside from the fact that it can talk, it seems pretty harmless.

_"What are you?" _he asks in a bit of a messy scrawl, unable to contain his intrigue.

_"A diary, obviously." _

Even in text, Harry recognizes the wryness and admits it was rather a silly question on his part. He is a bit disappointed at the answer nonetheless.

_"So you're just magic, and not a person?" _

_"I am part of a person, created by magic." _

This response confuses him a bit, and just as he puts the tip of his quill to inquire further, Riddle follows up with a clarification.

_"More specifically, I am a memory preserved inside this diary." _

That makes more sense, though it still strikes him as an impossible piece of magic. _"If you are a memory of the actual Tom Riddle, how did the diary end up here?" _It seems rather strange to him that the original Tom Riddle would lose track of something so important. If Harry created a diary and put his younger self into it, he'd be sure to keep it safe.

There is a slight pause before the black words surface in an answer.

_"That I do not know. This diary was created fifty years ago. I haven't spoken to anyone during that time." _

Harry can't even begin to fathom how terrible that must have been. Even if Riddle is just a memory, to have no one to talk to for all that time sounds dreadful.

_"You must have been really bored." _

When Riddle replies Harry thinks he can sense a slight, amused tone from the pages, even if there is no voice speaking to him.

_"Not at all. I am not an actual person like you, Harry. You could say that I'm immortal, in a sense. Time for me passes by rather quickly. You don't need to pity me."_

_"I'm not pitying you," _Harry writes back almost hurried. _"I'm just trying to understand." _

_"You needn't bother."_

_"I know what it's like to be alone," _he continues (insists) stubbornly, ignoring Riddle's response. _"I was alone until I came to Hogwarts."_

_"Alone in what way?" _

_"My parents both died when I was a baby. I was adopted by my aunt and uncle, and they pretty much treated me like a servant for most of my life. They're both Muggles, and they hate magic, so they hate me for being a wizard. I lived in a cupboard under the stairs until I was sent to Hogwarts, and I had no friends and no one to talk to." _It surprises him that he lets all of it out so easily. He's been bottling it up, in part, so to finally have some sort of vent for the years of abuse he hasn't spoken about to anybody seems only obvious.

Still, there's something about this diary, something so persuasive, eliciting a nostalgic feeling he knows can't be right. There's an almost abnormal pull on him to bare his secrets to this peculiar diary, in spite of his gut-feeling warning him something's not quite right.

_"You lived under the stairs until you were eleven?" _

Harry is a bit embarrassed with himself now for letting everything slip so easily, but he supposes no harm can come of it. It's just a diary after all, isn't it? Wasn't it made for this kind of thing in the first place?

_"Yeah, until I got the letter from Hogwarts. It had 'Cupboard under the Stairs' addressed on it, so my uncle panicked and gave me my own room." _

The words that appear come to the surface slower, almost hesitant, or maybe incredulous.

_"The current headmaster knew you were living under the stairs, yet did nothing about it?"_

Harry pauses, frowning slightly. Well, that is-that is to say-he isn't sure—he never really thought about it, actually.

_"I've already heard your story from the previous holder of this diary; The Boy Who Lived, who defeated the greatest wizard of all time when he was a mere infant. Forgive me, but it seems rather ridiculous that Dumbledore or any other staff in Hogwarts would allow the famed defeater of the Dark Lord to live in such dreadful conditions. I am somewhat surprised."_

As Riddle explains this, he makes perfect sense as far as the realm of cold, hard logic goes, but Harry has a bit of trouble wrapping his mind around it considering his emotional attachment and his admiration towards the Headmaster. The letter _was _addressed specifically to the cupboard under the stairs—a fact neither Professor McGonagall nor Professor Dumbledore could've known had they not been keeping track of him in some way. But they must have had their reasons for not interfering. Harry trusts them.

_"It wasn't that bad. I fit inside it for the most part."_

They didn't have bad intentions; what were they supposed to do? Threaten his uncle and aunt into treating him better?

_'Why not?' _a small voice in his head coaxes. _'You saw how terrified they were of Hagrid, who didn't even hurt them. It wouldn't have taken a lot. It would've taken a few minutes at most. So why didn't they?' _Harry thumbs the tip of his quill with a deep frown, staring down at the pages. He hates to think like this, doesn't want to think like this, but… maybe… had Dumbledore just not… cared enough to do it?

Well, he is _Dumbledore _after all. Harry is certain he must have had more important things to do than look after a child who wasn't even his own. He can't blame the Headmaster for it. No matter how badly his insides twist at this knowledge, he can't blame him. It's not as if Harry did anything to deserve Dumbledore's consideration as a kid, right?

Who is he, really? Who is Harry Potter?

Just a boy that got lucky once and didn't die.

What is he actually worth, anyway?

Harry has to conclude he's worth very little. Very little indeed, if no one cared enough to intervene all the times he was pushed around by Dudley, yelled at continuously by his uncle, called the most horrible names and endured all sorts of terrible treatment from his relatives.

_"Harry, you lived in a **cupboard**. Even I had my own room in the Muggle orphanage. You said they even treated you like a servant. This is not only abuse you suffered from those revolting Muggles, but pure neglect on everyone else's part, everyone who was aware of this but did nothing to stop it."_

He wants to insist it hadn't been that awful. He lived through it, he was never beaten (not by his aunt and uncle, anyway) and he got two meals a day when he did his chores. At the same time, he realizes Riddle is right in some way.

Still, even as he contemplates his own situation, something Riddle says pulls his attention.

_"You grew up in an orphanage?" _

_"Yes, unfortunately. I, much like you, had no friends to speak to, and no relatives that cared for me." _

_"How was it in the orphanage?" _

_"Bad." _A slight pause. _"I do not wish to speak of it." _

_"Sorry."_ Harry has forgotten his initial interest in the book entirely. He first wanted to ask about the Chamber of Secrets, but he was overtaken by curiosity for Riddle instead. He doesn't think about the Chamber until he's been writing to Tom for almost an hour (somewhere along the line, _Riddle _changed to _Tom_) and Tom mentions how pleasant it is to have an actual conversational partner and not someone that just pours all their trivial little woes into his pages and gives nothing in return for Tom's comforting words.

Harry doesn't understand why someone _wouldn't _want to ask Tom questions, or to get to know him better. The knowledge he possesses about the castle alone is impossibly vast—there's not a hidden passage or secret room Harry has discovered that Tom doesn't already know of, and he adds blithely that Harry hasn't even touched upon _a third _of the castle's secrets.

Aside from the fact that Tom is a bottomless well of information, Harry finds he enjoys talking to him. The memory that is him is of a sixteen year old Tom Riddle, who, while very tight-lipped about a lot of personal things like his upbringing, has a good sense of humour and is always polite and ready to answer whatever question Harry has for him.

Their conversation that first night is ended rather suddenly when Ron walks in and Harry—through some weird, inexplicable instinct—closes the diary and shoves it underneath his pillow, sitting up straight.

"What's up?" Ron asks him, looking at him with concern.

Harry shrugs. "Nothing."

He doesn't know why he didn't tell Ron about the diary and what he has discovered. Even when Ron specifically asks if he has anything new on the diary, Harry shakes his head. He'll tell Ron and Hermione eventually—at least that's what he says to himself as Ron moves to his own four-poster. He notes to the other that he's going to sleep and closes the curtain between them after a quick exchange of good night.

Instead of sleeping, however, he pulls the diary back out from under his pillow and opens it again. He managed not to spill his bottle of ink all over his sheets, so that's something.

_"Sorry about that, my friend walked in." _

_"I'm surprised you're keeping me a secret." _

Harry is quite surprised at himself as well, but reasons that it's for the best.

_"If Hermione found out about you, you'd probably end up being confiscated." _

_"That would be unfortunate. Make sure you hide me well, Harry." _

He thinks about a potential hiding spot for a very long time after he tells Tom he's going to sleep and closes the diary, putting it on his nightstand on the pile of books for classes. He decides he definitely wants to keep it, so for now, what better way to keep it safe than to have it on him at all times?

Harry asks Tom the next day if he can't replace the cover of the diary or transfigure it to look like something else, in case Ron or Hermione ever catch a glimpse of it—or worse, Malfoy—but Tom replies that because of his memory residing within it _is _essentially magic, the diary is immune to any other form of magic.

In the end he decides to chance it, hiding the diary inside a larger notebook. When he returns to the dorms that Sunday after Quidditch practice he finds his belongings strewn around the room, as if a hurricane went through his trunk and ripped everything apart in some sort of desperate search. Even his cloak is torn.

Harry walks over to the bed, open-mouthed, treading on a few loose pages of Travels with Trolls. As he and Neville pull the blankets back onto his bed, Ron, Dean, and Seamus come in, Dean swearing loudly.

"What happened, Harry?"

"No idea." Harry mutters. Ron examines Harry's robes; all the pockets are hanging out.

"Someone's been looking for something," Ron says. "Is there anything missing?"

Harry starts to pick up all his things and throws them into his trunk. As far as he could see, nothing is gone—it's a good thing that he, on Tom's suggestion, put his diary on the underside of his bed with a sticking charm. When he checks underneath, he sees the small book is still there, untouched.

"No, nothing's missing."

Ron helps him clean up the mess, and Seamus suggests reporting this to Professor McGonagall, and Harry would be crazy not to. It has to be a Gryffindor, after all, though Harry can't figure out why they would mess with his stuff like this. When he explains what has happened later that evening to Tom, he gets a surprising answer in return.

_"It sounds like the previous holder is trying to reclaim my diary."_

Harry figured it had to do with the diary, so Tom only confirms his suspicions. _"Who was the previous holder?" _

_"Ginny Weasley." _

He can hardly believe it. Ginny, of all people? Of course—the diary _was _dropped in the girl's bathroom, but why would Ginny try to flush it down the toilet, then only to rip Harry's things apart instead of just asking him to return it?

Harry mentions all of these thoughts to Tom, who doesn't seem as bemused by the whole situation.

_"She became frightened of what my diary can do, of what **I **can do. She has told me all of her secrets, so perhaps when she found out that the diary was not gone but instead in your possession, she panicked, thinking I might give all of it away, and tried to get it back. I am rather glad she failed." _

_"Should I go talk to her?" _

_"If you think it wise." _

Harry can tell Tom doesn't think it wise.

_"If I promise her you haven't told me anything, maybe she'll stop."_

Tom doesn't reply, so Harry changes the subject to the classes he'll have to pick for his third year. He stalled signing up for any because he wanted to hear Tom's opinion, who had already gone through this whole process.

_"I know I want to take Care of Magical Creatures, but I need to pick a second subject and I don't know which one. Ron is taking Divination as his second one…"_

_"Divination is a waste of time. Reading the lines off someone's palm and staring into a crystal ball for an hour—it's all nonsense. Though I admit dream interpretation can be intriguing, it has more to do with the psyche than it does with the future. The whole subject consists of superstitious drivel." _

_"So which subject should I take then?" _

_"If you are really interested in predicting the future, Arithmancy is a much more trustworthy method as it relies on a mathematical approach instead of blatant guesswork. Otherwise, I would pick Ancient Runes. Translating scripts of old magic can teach you a lot of interesting spells, or aid you in creating them." _

Creating spells, even? While Harry was initially put off by the name of the subject alone, the way Tom explains it makes it sound a lot more useful than it was depicted as.

_"A lot of studies on the spells we use today are written in old runic texts. Reading them can bring you a new understanding of how magic works far better than any copy of Waffling's Magical Theory ever could. With new understanding comes new possibilities."_

And so, to Ron's shock and Hermione's delight and Tom's approval, Harry picks Ancient Runes as his second elective next to Care of Magical Creatures.

When a week has passed and he still hasn't told either of them about the diary, he doesn't think he ever will. Tom certainly doesn't want him to. Tom also doesn't want him to talk to Ginny, but he does, or attempts to, but whenever she sees him she pales and instantly makes her escape.

At the same time, Harry finally asks Tom about the Chamber of Secrets while Ginny is avoiding him, when Dumbledore's temporary resignation and Hagrid's arrest causes uproar within the school. He can scarcely believe the Headmaster is actually gone—and Hagrid arrested! For what? What could the giant have possibly done?

His question is answered when Tom actually _shows _him; he's sucked into the pages of the diary and ends up in the past, first witnessing a conversation between Tom and Headmaster Dippet. While this takes place Harry pays attention to his friend especially, as it is the first time he sees him, and he finally has a face and a voice to place with the words in the diary.

The real shock comes when he witnesses Hagrid being blamed for the attacks. While it does look like Hagrid had been keeping a dangerous creature hidden in the castle, even when the memory ends and Harry is lying back on his bed, he can hardly believe it. Hagrid can't be the Heir of Slytherin, can he?

Tom admits as much to him. He explains he hadn't been entirely sure at the time either, but driven by desperation at being sent back to the orphanage he so despised, since Hagrid's "pet" was the only dangerous animal in the castle at the time he had concluded it had to be the cause of the attacks. Harry believes him unquestioningly.

The year slowly crawls by.

There are no further attacks.

The Chamber of Secrets remains closed and undiscovered.

Tom Riddle no longer cares about cleansing the school from mudbloods.

All he cares about now is Harry Potter.

* * *

"So he'll be back next year? Dumbledore as well?"

Hermione smiles brightly and nods. She, Harry and Ron are in their own little compartment in the train that's heading back to King's Cross station, discussing recent news of Hagrid's release after Dumbledore insisted on a fair trial, in which it was of course impossible to prove he was actually behind the opening of the Chamber in the first place. There was no substantive evidence for his involvement both now _and _in the case of fifty years ago.

What ultimately matters to the school board and the Wizengamot both is that the attacks should stop. And so they did—for several months until the end of the year. Since none of the attacks have been actually fatal to any students, the Ministry did what the Ministry does best; sweep the whole ordeal under the rug, and pretend like nothing has happened.

The train ride itself is far too short. Within hours he has to say goodbye to his friends, and finds himself on the doorstep of Privet Drive, facing a long, _long _summer stuck with relatives who loathe him.

Well, if nothing else, at least he has Tom.


	2. Chapter Two

**A/N: **Oh my god, I truly hadn't expected that much attention for this story right off the bat. So many follows and favourites and reviews already, and it's just the first chapter! I'm a bit shocked. I hope I won't disappoint. As always, constructive criticism would be very helpful and much appreciated. Enjoy!

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LITHIUM

**CHAPTER TWO**

"You can't just—" Harry watches as Uncle Vernon pulls out his cauldron from his trunk and shoves it into the old cupboard, followed by all of his books, tossed carelessly inside. "I need those things!"

The large whale of a man turns to him, lower lip quivering, which would have Harry think he was about to cry were it not for the fact that nothing but rage is reflected in his beady eyes, and the rest of him is shaking as well, the flush of red creeping up his neck to his face. Aunt Petunia is lingering in the doorway between the hall and the living room, watching with pursed lips and narrowed eyes, arms crossed tightly over her skinny frame.

"There's nothing you'll be needing them for." Uncle Vernon snarls at him, holding out his hand expectantly until Harry (filled with reluctance from head to toe) hands over his wand as well, which is thrown into the cupboard as the last item before Uncle Vernon slams the door shut and closes it up tight, using one large, iron lock with a chain to keep it secure, slipping the key into his pocket with an almost mad grin.

"But if I don't do my homework—"

"THERE WILL BE NO ABNORMAL THINGS IN THIS HOUSEHOLD!" his uncle roars, spit flying from his mouth and narrowly missing Harry's shirt, who quickly takes a step back and tries not to let the disgust show on his face. There's no reasoning with his uncle when it comes to magic—if there was an insane serial killer on one end of an alleyway and a friendly wizard on the other, Harry suspects Uncle Vernon wouldn't hesitate to run towards the serial killer for help.

He resists the urge to point out that by locking up his belongings in the cupboard, there are in fact abnormal things in this household which he is keeping here himself, but he knows his uncle's face would then transition from red to purple and Harry would be next to go into the cupboard, so he stays quiet and storms upstairs with what's left in his trunk as well as Hedwig's cage.

Ignoring Dudley who's wandering around in the corridor and smirking as if he's about to make an obnoxious remark, Harry slips into his room and slams the door shut, anger pounding against his skull.

It's the same thing every damn year. The one chance he has to forever escape the miserable Dursleys and they attempt to ruin it for him completely. He shudders to think what would've happened to him had he been born a Squib, unable to do magic, to attend Hogwarts, stuck in Little Whinging and with the Dursleys for more than just summer holidays.

Dudley takes that moment to bang against his door with his fist. "What's wrong, Potter? You crying 'cause dad took your magic stick away?"

"Piss off, Dudley!" Harry snaps venomously, banging back against it once and hearing a sudden shriek and something heavy falling on the floor. While he hadn't intended to startle his cousin, he feels more than satisfied at doing it, barely stifling his laughter as he listens to Dudley scrambling back up.

"You can't stay in your room forever!" Dudley shouts at him from the other side before hobbling away, heavy footsteps audible from the thick creaking of the stairs.

Harry is briefly reminded of all the times Dudley would purposely run up and down and jump on top of the steps just to make his cupboard shake in the mornings and at night when going to sleep, back when they were younger. Often Harry was terrified that sooner or later Dudley would fall through the stairs, his large feet crushing Harry's head. He would curl up under his blanket and pray the stairs would hold, covering his head with his arms.

If it hadn't been for magic, Harry might have still been in that cupboard. He hasn't grown much in the past two years; a result of chronic malnutrition, causing him to be shorter and skinnier than his peers. Though he has put on some weight, it is mostly muscle from Quidditch and not very noticeable unless he flexes. He suspects he has missed out on his chance on a growth spurt by now, and at this rate he'll be extremely lucky if he ever manages to make it to 1.70 meters.

He starts unpacking his clothes and whatever else is left in his trunk which Uncle Vernon hasn't gotten his chubby hands on, busying himself by putting everything back into place in his room and feeding Hedwig, and he manages to get through the first hour that way. He finds Tom's diary at the bottom, undiscovered and safely hidden away underneath his Invisibility Cloak. It's a huge relief to see it, as for the first time in his life on Privet Drive, Harry has a friend.

Wasting no more time seeing as how he has put all his belongings away, his trunk empty and sitting next to the small closet he stuffed his clothes in earlier, he grabs his quill and a bottle of ink, sitting at his desk and turning to the first page.

_"I'm back at the Dursleys and they took everything, even my wand." _

In the past few months Harry told Tom everything about his life with his Muggle relatives. He hasn't even told Ron or Hermione, but with them, he feels as if it would be different. They would overreact, demand he tell a teacher, Ron might even tell him to come live with him and his family instead—Harry can't take it, can't take the thought of being a burden or a bother to anyone, to be the focus of their _pity _of all things.

Tom seems to understand it, and instead of smothering Harry with concern for his well-being he merely expresses repugnance towards his mother's side of the family, and offers suggestions on how to get back at them with various hexes and jinxes once he's of age.

_"You _are_ going to reclaim all of it, aren't you?" _

Harry grins. This is exactly what he needs, not Hermione's, _"They can't do that, how will you do your homework?!"_ or Ron's, _"I can't believe they took your wand, the sons of b—"_, but Tom's cool and calculated responses. The two of them know what it's like, to endure the abuse and scorn of Muggles.

_"Yeah, I just need to wait for an opportunity." _

_"No, Harry. What you need is a plan."_ Tom writes back immediately. _"Why wait? These are your belongings; they stole them from you. Take them back tonight." _

He has a point, but Harry wouldn't know where to start. "_Uncle Vernon keeps the keys to the lock with him, or in his office, probably." _

_"Did you see him put the keys away in his office?" _

_"No, he put them in his pocket." _

_"He may forget them there, so you might have to search the bedroom. Leave a window open downstairs—it doesn't matter which one, as long as it's inconspicuous enough that they won't notice. When they lock your door tonight, wait until you're certain everyone has gone to sleep. Climb out your window and get inside from the one you left open. After that, it should be child's play." _

Harry is utterly stunned at how simple the plan is, and how he hasn't thought of it before. Even if Uncle Vernon locks him up in his bedroom again as he tends to do every night, climbing out his window is incredibly easy—no more than a few meter fall which can hardly break any bones as he'll land in the bushes down below. Climbing back inside should be easy as well, and after that, he can search his uncle's office for the keys or search his bedroom if he has to. He can get all his stuff and carry it up to his own room again.

There _is_ the issue of his door being left unlocked, however. He asks Tom about it, seeing as how if he leaves his bedroom door unlocked Uncle Vernon will definitely notice, but he can't lock himself out as there's no way for him to climb back inside of his room. It's too high up.

_"You can be so thick sometimes."_ Tom replies and Harry imagines him sighing. _"You own a broom, do you not?" _

Harry pauses for a second, and suddenly feels very dim-witted.

_"Oh. I hadn't thought of that." _

_"_'Oh'_, indeed." _

Now all there's left to do is wait until the evening.

* * *

When Harry comes down the stairs the next morning with a smile on his face, the tiny, _tiny_ cogs in Dudley's head start turning.

Why is Potter so happy today when just yesterday he was shouting at Dudley to piss off? He doesn't even give his dad the usual cross look when he sees him at the breakfast table, and in fact, doesn't look at his dad at all. He's quiet and keeps to himself, but every so often, Dudley swears he sees his lips curve in a faint smile.

The morning passes with Harry happily eating his breakfast, keeping his mouth shut and pretending he doesn't exist (just as his aunt and uncle prefer it), ultimately only further arousing Dudley's suspicions. He's oblivious to the danger he invites, however, and instead of paying attention to his wary cousin he cleans up the table after breakfast without saying a word to his aunt and immediately heads upstairs right after.

He has to be the only kid in England (well, aside from Hermione) who's dying to do his homework. He owes it all to Tom, really; if it had been left up to Harry he would've been playing the waiting game, possibly to no avail as well.

Harry is by no means stupid, but when it comes to strategy and making plans that don't have anything to do with Quidditch, he tends to overlook things. His skill lies more in quick thinking, making split-second decisions, reacting to direct confrontations. Sitting around and scheming isn't exactly his forte, being a typical Gryffindor and all. He figures Tom would be good at that, as a Slytherin.

Whenever he thinks about it, being such close friends with a Slytherin of all people, he wants to laugh. His idea of Slytherins all this time has been defined by Malfoy and his two goons, and he realizes that it has been pretty narrow-minded of him, to not give any others the benefit of the doubt—then again, the entire House is pretty deep in with Voldemort's people. But what about before that? Maybe Slytherin back in the day was an actually respectable House, before Voldemort corrupted it.

When he's upstairs he asks Tom about it, about his Housemates, but gets a disappointing answer in return.

_"The rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor wasn't started because of Lord Voldemort; the two Houses have been in conflict since the very founding. I'm sure you know of Salazar Slytherin's infamous falling out with Godric Gryffindor?"_ Tom doesn't wait for his answer. _"Even during my time in Hogwarts there was a tension between the two Houses, though we preferred to ignore each other. I suspect Lord Voldemort has merely caused more polarization of the differences already present."_

Harry isn't about to make an arse out of himself and ask what 'polarization' exactly means (he figures what Tom is saying in simple terms is that Voldemort has made things worse, anyway) and so he shifts the subject away somewhat.

_"That makes sense, though it doesn't explain how we ended up as friends." _

There's a certain delay in Tom's reply that Harry isn't certain how to interpret. Tom rarely takes longer than a second to answer or write something, so whenever there's a pause, Harry wonders what Tom is thinking that causes it.

_"Do you really need an explanation for that?"_ Tom responds eventually.

_"You're not half that bad, for a Slytherin. I guess that's enough of an explanation, right?"_ Harry jests easily, his memory-friend not missing a beat in return.

_"And you're exactly what I expect from a Gryffindor. It's a small miracle I don't utterly despise your very existence."_

_"I think you and Malfoy might even get along if you did." _

_"Do you think so lowly of me to suppose I'd ever keep such a spoiled brat in my company?" _

Harry smirks at that; back in Hogwarts he told Tom plenty of Malfoy's antics as his friend was interested in what state Slytherin was in nowadays. When he heard the most 'popular' Slytherin is a child that goes around and flaunts his father's wealth and standing around whenever he can, he was "rather displeased".

_"Not even for five minutes?" _

_"Of course he'd have his uses, as heir of the Malfoy fortune and inheritor of his father's connections, but I would never spend time with him for companionship." _

_"So who did you keep for 'companionship', during your time at Hogwarts?"_ Harry inquires, realizing he has no idea who Tom called his friends or who he associated with when he was a student. Harry knows he didn't much like Professor Dumbledore, but that is the extent of his knowledge.

_"No one." _

That is not the response he expected. _"No one? No friends?" _

_"I had plenty of acquaintances, but no one who could ever understand me, or relate to me."_ Harry knows the feeling he's talking about all too well. He feels bad for him, knowing that he hadn't been able to find the wonderful friends Harry found in Ron and Hermione. _"Not until now, anyway. Consider yourself my first friend, Harry." _

Harry smiles happily at the statement, feeling rather special for the first time in his life—he is Tom's first friend. Of all the people Tom met before, being as charming and intelligent as he is, he makes _Harry_ his first friend, _The Boy Who's Quite Ordinary_, Tom Riddle's friend.

It's quite the unusual bond they have now, as you don't normally befriend a talking diary that hosts a memory-entity from fifty years ago, but he has no reason to question it. Tom has been nothing but kind and helpful to him so far, and they're friends, after all. Friends don't doubt each other.

If only Harry knew that Tom is lying through his teeth.

* * *

When the days pass and Harry's good mood doesn't fade, even with him either holed up in his room or doing chores for his aunt, Dudley decides to take action.

He has to know what it is that makes his cousin this happy, and he has to stop it immediately. What better way to spend his summer than to make Potter absolutely miserable? He's been a burden on their family for thirteen years now, so the least he can do to make up for it is provide Dudley with some entertainment.

The large boy waits until his cousin comes down to pick up his measly plate of food for that evening, and when he's in the kitchen, Dudley quickly races upstairs and barges into Harry's room. Looking around at first glance, all he sees is the stupid owl sitting in a cage near the window and some books spread around the bed, but then he notices a notebook on the desk, next to a quill and a black bottle of what's probably ink.

He approaches it with a large grin, thinking he hit the jackpot and found Harry's diary or something of the sort, greedily picking it up and looking through it. Turning page after page after page, however, he notices it's completely blank.

Face contorting into a disappointed scowl, he's about to drop it back down on the desk again when he notices something inscribed on the green leather cover.

**Tom Marvolo Riddle**

"Put that down!" Harry's angry voice comes from the doorway, and Dudley quickly takes a few steps back, a malicious smirk on his face. His cousin quickly puts his plate and glass on the desk and makes a move to snatch the diary out of Dudley's hands, who raises it away and out of Harry's reach.

"Who's Tom?" he taunts as Harry glares at him, jaw set, reaching out for a second time before Dudley shoves him away. "Is that your boyfriend? You wanna be Mrs. Riddle?"

"Give it back, Dudley!"

"I bet you have his name written all over some pages somewhere in here, don't you, Potter?" Dudley continues to sneer, turning his back to Harry who is having difficulty overcoming his huge physical disadvantage relative to his fat cousin. Dudley flips through the pages again, convinced he has missed something, when another idea occurs to him. "Or is this a present to dear Tommy-boy?"

Harry briefly wonders how Tom would react to being called 'dear Tommy-boy' by Dudley, and decides he really has to get that diary back now before—

"I hope he won't be upset if something happens to it." Dudley continues to say and Harry is now panicking as his cousin grabs a handful of pages with a malevolent glinting in his eyes, intending to tear it apart.

"Dudley, STOP!" Harry yells, grabbing at his shirt, pulling and pushing as hard as he can, but realizing it is futile. Dudley is going to do inevitable damage to the diary—except he doesn't.

The moment Dudley attempts to tear the pages down, the diary flashes bright red and Dudley is flung across the room like a ragdoll, colliding against the door with a grunt and sinking down on the floor, unmoving.

"WHAT'S ALL THAT NOISE?!" Uncle Vernon howls from downstairs. Harry, who is still flabbergasted at what has just taken place, manages to get out an excuse.

"I-I dropped Hedwig's cage! Sorry, it won't happen again!" he calls back weakly, looking at the diary that has fallen to the floor and carefully picking it up, before looking over to his cousin who looks like he's been knocked out. This is bad. If either his aunt or uncle sees Dudley like this, Harry will be finished.

He puts the diary aside for now and sets out to drag Dudley back to his own room. Heaving the boy up by his sweaty armpits (Harry grimaces) he nearly throws his back out, but he manages to haul him off to his room. Getting him to lie on his bed takes five minutes and it's only due to sheer dumb luck that Aunt Petunia hasn't come upstairs yet to do the laundry.

Harry closes Dudley's bedroom door and quickly retreats to his own, sitting down at his desk and opening the diary.

_"What the bloody hell just happened?"_

_"I defended myself."_ Tom replies simply, not lessening Harry's confusion.

_"You just knocked Dudley out cold!" _

_"He was attempting to kill me; he's lucky I didn't decide to burn his hands off." _

_"Don't get me wrong, I'm not upset with you or anything, I just had no idea you could do that!"_ It is a reassuring thing to know that the diary has its own defence mechanisms, Harry's respect for Tom growing even further. He's sure it isn't a type of magic just anyone can accomplish, especially not the type that sends a person flying across the room.

_"I could do much more than that, if I had more magic."_ Tom remarks, instantly piquing Harry's curiosity.

_"What do you mean?" _

_"I have my own source of magic, though it is small, and I am just a little piece of another person, bound to these pages,"_ he begins to explain, gaining the boy's full attention. _"I can show you my memories, and I can protect myself, but that is the extent of what I can do as I am now. If I had another source I could tap from, however, I'd be able to do much more. I'd even be able to leave the diary, with enough energy." _

Harry's heart starts beating faster with excitement. For Tom to be able to leave the diary would be nothing short of amazing—he'd actually be able to see him, to talk to him, to laugh with him like he does with all his other friends. It sounds like a fantastic idea, and Harry sees no downsides to it, blinded by his own need for a friend who truly understands his predicament.

_"So how would we get you another source?"_ he asks quickly, and so eager he is to help that his brain is already racing for possibilities. _"If it's just more magic that you need, couldn't I just give it to you?" _

There's a slight pause until he sees a response. _"You would do that?"_

_"Of course! You want to get out of the diary, don't you? What do I have to do?" _

The text that appears next is immediate. _"To create a more direct connection between the two of us, we'll need a bit of blood magic. Nothing sinister, I assure you. All you have to do it make a cut on your palm and press it onto a page. I'll take care of the rest." _

_"That's all?" _

_"Yes."_

Harry is rather surprised at how simple the solution is, and wonders why Tom hasn't asked him to do this before. Maybe he didn't think Harry would care enough to do it, and Harry is glad to prove him wrong. He sneaks to the kitchen to get a knife, his uncle too busy yelling at one of his employees through the phone and his aunt to busy watching TV to notice, and quickly heads upstairs again, wanting to get it over with as fast as possible.

He isn't entirely sure about the cutting part. It's going to hurt, that much is inevitable, but when he thinks about Tom stepping out of the diary, walking around his room, maybe leaning against the desk, maybe petting Hedwig, he thinks it's more than worth it. To have someone like Tom, who really _knows _him and understands him, provides incentive enough. Especially being cooped up for the rest of the summer with the Dursleys, Harry doesn't think it through as much as he should. What reason does he have to distrust Tom, anyway? His mind is made up.

Tom clarifies a few things before he goes through with it, however.

_"It'll be a gradual process. I don't want to sap all your magic all at once, only as much as you can miss without it affecting your health or your spells, small chunks that you'll easily replenish over time. I don't know how long it will take for me to be able to leave the diary, but it's a start if nothing else."_ Harry sees nothing wrong with any of this, feeling better with Tom's reassurance that he'll be careful with draining Harry's magic. _"Are you sure you want to do this?"_

_"Absolutely."_ Harry writes down the word easily, and then looks at the knife in his hand. He bites his lip, putting the edge against his palm. If he does it quickly and hard enough one go, it won't be that bad; he's had worse injuries, after all. Closing his eyes, he swiftly pulls the blade of the knife over his palm, cutting it open. The sharp pain makes him curse, blood dripping down his hand and landing in drops on a page of the diary that are absorbed immediately as if they were ink.

Taking a deep breath, he puts his hand down flat on that same page. The moment he connects, it almost feels like there's electricity shooting through his arm, locking his muscles up. It doesn't hurt, but the tingling feeling in his fingertips feels odd, similar to what you feel right after a limb has fallen asleep and you try to shake it out.

The strange current pulses through his arm and prods at something inside his chest. Harry is left breathless at the sensations. It's as if there's something inside his veins that hooks into his magic and slowly pulls it into the diary. The feeling slowly fades, and when it's practically unnoticeable, Harry pulls his hand off the page, and notices to his wonder that his cut has healed completely.

When he looks down at the diary he sees two words written in the middle of the page (_"Thank you,"_) and smiles without truly understanding the ominous meaning behind them.

Tom Riddle grows stronger.


	3. Chapter Three

**A/N: **Because of the overwhelming amount of wonderful reviews last time (thank you all so much), I decided to upload this chapter much earlier than I had planned. I'll be speeding through Harry's third year for the most part, only covering the most plot-relevant points and summarizing the rest. This is going to turn into a rather lengthy story. Hope you enjoy this next chapter!

* * *

LITHIUM

**CHAPTER THREE**

Somehow, things with Dudley work out almost perfectly. Whenever Harry flashes him a glimpse of Tom's diary, the boy turns pale and starts sweating. It's amusing to Harry at first, but when for the next several nights he can hear Dudley screaming in his sleep, sounding as if he's having the most horrible nightmares, he starts feeling a little guilty. He asks Tom if he did anything _else _to Dudley aside from knocking him out, and Tom smoothly remarks that you can never know how magic will impact Muggles. The boy might just be traumatized by the experience.

Harry reluctantly accepts his explanation, but he doesn't like it. At least his aunt and uncle have no way of blaming this on him as Dudley refuses to speak of what's tormenting him during the evenings, to the point where they actually take him to a doctor to deal with his sleep-deprivation. He's prescribed sleeping pills, and the screaming stops after a week. The next three weeks, Harry spends as much time possible finishing his homework, goes out on walks in the neighbourhood and talks to Tom. It is perhaps the most peaceful summer he's had with the Dursleys ever.

Of course, nothing good can possibly last for Harry Potter. On one particular morning during breakfast, he overhears Petunia (_"Why do you call her 'aunt' if she doesn't behave like one?" _Tom asked him once, prompting Harry to drop all familial terms) mention Marge.

'Aunt Marge'. Vernon's sister.

The Dursleys are awful enough on their own. Marge, however? She's a whole different kind of horrid, which is to be expected, considering she comes from _Vernon's_ side of the family. From whacking his shins with her cane to having one of her bulldogs chase him around, Marge is probably the most despicable person Harry knows.

When Vernon announces she'll be staying over for an entire _week_ that morning, right after breakfast and after his uncle establishing his back-story for him, Harry goes straight upstairs to his bedroom and pulls out the diary from under his mattress, sitting down at his desk with a quill and a small ink bottle, silently fuming.

_"This has got to be my worst birthday ever." _

It only takes a second for the response of his only friend in this house to show up, the familiar, elegant lines of ink soothing his nerves that are white-hot from anger.

_"I see you are in a chipper mood this morning." _

Harry's handwriting gets a bit messy as he continues on, his agitation making it difficult to keep a steady hand._ "They've been telling people I've been locked up in a 'Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys'. My aunt is coming over and now I have to pretend as if I've been in a looney bin for the criminally insane the past two years!" _

_"I've said this before, Harry, and I'll say it again: why don't you leave?" _

Tom has brought this point up several times. After Harry told him about all the money he inherited from his parents, Tom questioned why he still remained with his Muggle relatives if they treat him so horribly. Harry replied with asking where he's supposed to go, and Tom pointed out he could easily stay at an inn and send an owl to the Weasleys, who would no doubt be delighted to have him stay over for the summer.

And if he really doesn't want to trouble them with his presence, he can always ask to stay at Hogwarts like Tom used to_—_it is unlikely they'd refuse Harry Potter such a small favour.

Harry has contemplated it many times after his friend mentioned it, and he thinks that he might actually have to do it, too. Why does he have to suffer through this every summer when he can just _leave_?

_"I don't know. I'm thinking about it."_

If it wasn't for the duplication spell Tom taught him, he might have actually been forced to cut a deal with Vernon, to get him to sign the permission slip for Harry to go to Hogsmeade next year. With the amount of paperwork Vernon signs for his job every day it was incredibly easy for Harry to slip into his office and find something in the trash bin with his signature on it—he _could _copy it over directly on the permission slip by hand, but Tom suggested waiting until he was at Hogwarts to instead copy it perfectly by magic in one go.

With Tom's new presence into his life, things have certainly been made a lot easier in some ways. Harry is incredibly happy he decided to keep the diary, as Tom's advice has often proved to be invaluable. However, there has been something peculiar going on with the diary, lately. Harry wonders if it's just his imagination, but sometimes, when the rest of the house is quiet and he's talking to Tom, when he really concentrates on the words, he thinks he can almost _hear _Tom's voice.

It's evidence that the bond established between the two of them through blood magic has been working, his magic fueling Tom with new life. At this rate, Tom told him it would only take a few months for him to be able to materialize outside the diary. Harry can't wait for it.

_"Tell me about this aunt that is visiting." _Tom suggests, pulling Harry's attention away from his thoughts and back to his pages. Harry dips the tip of his quill in the ink, but before he can write a single word, more appears on the page. _"And before I forget—" _The next three words are not just written; a gust of wind blows through his room and the atmosphere suddenly shifts to something charged with magic, when Harry swears he can hear a whisper as clear as if it were breathed directly into his ear.

"_Happy birthday, Harry."_

* * *

By the end of the day he drags his trunk along on the cold pavement, still furious and somewhat regretting that he didn't turn that revolting woman into a toad or something. Not that he knew how to—that bit of transfiguration was still a bit too advanced for him. And the Ministry would have probably expelled him from Hogwarts immediately.

Either way, he took Tom's advice after hearing Marge badmouth his mother. Harry decided then, listening to the woman compare his mother to a bitch, that he really didn't have to put up with this any longer. He could just grab his stuff and get out if he needed to. He knew how to flag down the Knight Bus, which Tom had told him about, and get to the Leaky Cauldron, so in essence the only thing that prevented him was his own hesitance of going out all by himself, though that feeling was promptly overwhelmed by his fury.

Sure, he probably should not have let his anger control him (which ended up shattering all the windows when he slammed the front door shut behind him on his way out) but he figures it could've been much worse.

He could've ended up blowing his aunt up, for example.

The Knight Bus is quite the experience, but what's even more extraordinary is the fact that The Minister of Magic is waiting for him at the Leaky Cauldron. At first Harry is incredibly confused and somewhat anxious for his presence, thinking he did something horribly wrong, but after a brief elaboration it seems as if the man is simply very concerned about his sudden departure from the Dursleys.

The Minister invites him up to a private room where he expresses his worry of Harry having run away from home so suddenly. Usually Harry would've been patient with this, but after seeing how easy it was to leave the Dursleys and how few consequences were bound to his actions, he's a bit ticked off that he hadn't thought of doing this sooner. He wasted two-and-a-half perfectly good summers locked up in his room or otherwise trying _not _to get beat up by Dudley and his idiotic little gang, while he could've just gone and stayed at the Leaky Cauldron and enjoyed the atmosphere of Diagon Alley.

When Fudge states (and Harry pretended very much to care, up until this point, where he _actually _starts caring) that his aunt and uncle will allow him to return next summer as long as he stays at Hogwarts during the Christmas and Easter holidays, Harry sees it fit to set him straight immediately, announcing he never wants to go back to Privet Drive.

"Now, now, I'm sure you'll feel differently once you've calmed down," Fudge says in a worried tone. "They are your family, after all, and I'm sure you are fond of each other, er, very deep down."

"I slept in a cupboard under the stairs until I was eleven. If they're fond of me they have a very funny way of showing it." Harry mumbles in response, once again silently thanking Tom for showing him the proverbial light.

"You—in a cupboard? Under the stairs!" The Minister seems utterly flabbergasted, which Harry can't quite understand.

"Well, yes, surely you knew? You've been monitoring me in every other way."

"My dear boy," Fudge says with a deep frown, looking highly disconcerted, "I assure you I had no idea until this very second. Our monitoring only extends to the use of magic—there are laws that protect privacy, you know. If I had any idea of such-such abuse…"

Here, Harry sees an opportunity. A chance to rid himself from the Dursleys once and for all. He tells Fudge everything—being forced to do almost all the chores around the house, all his magical belongings locked away prohibiting him to study for Hogwarts, the lies he's been fed about his parents' death, the verbal abuse he suffers through day in and day out… by the end of it, Fudge looks positively ashen.

_The Boy Who Lived, _treated so terribly by Muggles under Fudge's administration? If this ever gets out to the press it'll be the worst kind of publicity and the best kind of political ammo for his opponents. Fudge tries to give him a smile that looks shaky at best after a long pause, and promises he will look into this matter and see if he can't arrange him a more _"healthy" _environment to spend his summers in, and for the rest of his vacation, he should remain in the Leaky Cauldron. Harry walks away with a huge grin on his face. Tom would be proud.

In his new room, with its comfortable looking bed, cheerfully crackling fireplace and nicely polished oak furniture, he finds Hedwig as well as the rest of his belongings. The friendly innkeeper named Tom, who is _very _unlike the other Tom he knows, has brought all of it up for him. It feels almost wrong to have another Tom walking around, even if Harry knows the innkeeper longer from his previous visits to the Leaky Cauldron. Still, he'd much rather have Tom Riddle walking around in his room (Harry imagines he'd be leaning against the elaborately carved mantelpiece, dark grey eyes staring into the fire) instead of Tom the toothless innkeeper grinning at him sheepishly.

The first thing he does with that train of thought lingering in his mind after the innkeeper has left him is open up his trunk and pull out the diary, as well as get a quill and a bottle of ink. He starts to write.

_"It's been a very weird night, Tom." _

He doesn't have to wait for an answer. While his whole life fluctuates in change, this diary is his only constant, the one anchor he has to keep him grounded.

_"Tell me everything."_

* * *

So, there's an insane mass murderer out there who wants him dead.

Harry would've been more alarmed at the news, but he's convinced there is no conceivable way Sirius Black could get to him in Hogwarts.

The past three weeks were fun, leaving aside the fact that Voldemort's psychotic follower is after him. He bought everything necessary for his classes, enjoyed his mornings by exploring Diagon Alley and staring longingly at the The Firebolt (_"You're not going to waste your money on a broomstick_, _are you?" _Tom criticized him when Harry relayed his wish to buy the thing) until Ron and Hermione found him a day before they were supposed to leave for King's Cross.

That day he also discovered that the escaped convict he'd been hearing so much about is specifically after him, of all people (courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley having no volume control on their conversations.).

_"Is it so surprising?" _Tom writes to him on the morning of his leave to Hogwarts, Harry sitting up in his bed at the crack of dawn. _"The Dark Lord must have more followers who seek vengeance in his stead."_

Harry yawns, rubbing an eye from under his glasses before writing a reply. _"But he escaped from Azkaban. Apparently you're not supposed to escape from Azkaban." _

_"An impressive feat; all the more reason for caution."_

_"I think I'll be just fine." _

_"I do hope you're not starting to delude yourself into thinking you defeated Lord Voldemort with any skill of your own? You are quite vulnerable outside of Hogwarts., Harry." _

_"Of course I don't think that," _Harry writes back quickly, eyebrows furrowing. Tom almost seems annoyed. _"Besides, even if Black somehow manages to kill me, it's not like he can bring Voldemort back, right?" _

_"I wouldn't be so sure of that." _Harry blinks several times, wondering if he has read that right. Tom continues. _"The Dark Arts offer many possibilities. From what you've told me, it appears that Lord Voldemort is not yet dead—his soul is still in the realm of the living, surviving by possessing animals or people, merely waiting for an opportunity to present itself. If he wanted to regain his own, independent body, it would only take a simple blood ritual."_

Harry feels a chill go down his spine as he reads all of this, eyes wide. He knows Voldemort isn't dead exactly, but the way Tom explains it—would it be that easy for him to return? Just through a blood ritual? What if he's preparing one right now? As Tom said earlier, he has to have more followers like Black out there. What if Black is helping him in the ritual? What if—

_"Are you afraid?" _

Harry lets out a deep breath, calming himself as he reads Tom's question. He thinks about it for a moment, but decides his answer fairly quickly, on instinct.

_"No." _

_"Why not?" _

_"There's still a wizard out there that's stronger than him. Even if he comes back, Dumbledore will_—_" _Harry doesn't even have the chance to finish his sentence when he gets an instant response.

_"Dumbledore! What inane reasoning," _This is the first time Harry has witnessed Tom this aggravated; usually he's entirely friendly and patient, even when pointing out Harry's mistakes. _"Albus Dumbledore couldn't stop The Dark Lord decades before you came along, what makes you think he could possibly stop him at his return? Dumbledore is nothing more than a relic, already past his prime."_

_"Voldemort is past his prime too," _Harry points out, starting to get frustrated, and anxious. It almost sounds like Tom is defending Voldemort, but he can't possibly be. Who could defend such a wizard that has committed so many terrible crimes? Surely not Tom; Harry knows Tom's intellect far surpasses his own, and someone that brilliant _couldn't _in all good conscience support such a vile, wretched person. _"And unlike him Dumbledore doesn't need an army of followers and the Dark Arts to fight." _

_"You think a man that stands alone could win against a man that inspired an army?" _The pages of the diary start to flutter a little, like the feathers of a bird that's starting to get agitated. He can almost feel it pulsing through the pages, like a vein about to pop. _"You look down upon the Dark Arts because you do not understand it. No magic can be inherently evil, only man's intent in using it can make it so. If used for a worthy cause, what is so 'evil' about the Dark Arts?" _

_"Voldemort's followers are insane murderers and people who are too scared of him to resist." _Harry grits his teeth, tempted to slam the book shut at this point. _"And I suppose my parents were killed for a worthy cause, too?" _

_"That's not what I meant." _

_"Then why the bloody hell are you defending Voldemort?!"_

_"I'm not defending him." _

_"It sounds like you are!" _Harry's handwriting is a mess now, and his fingers are starting to cramp, but he's too worked up to care. _"It almost sounds like you admire him!"_

_"I am only pointing out to you the errors in your thinking. You should have at least a basic understanding of your enemy before you try to wage war against him, Harry. If he ever returns, his followers will be ready to die for him, kill for him, commit atrocities in his name if he so wished it. Dumbledore has very few, I suspect, who have that level of devotion to him. It is obvious who has the advantage there." _

There is nothing he can say in retort to that, and while he doesn't like the idea at all, Harry knows that no one on Dumbledore's side of the fence is capable of the horrors the Death Eaters have caused in the past. He cannot argue with Tom on this, or on anything, really. He's leaps and bounds ahead of Harry in almost every area imaginable. But that doesn't mean he can't be irritated by it.

Tom continues._ "Moreover, I do not understand your aversion for the Dark Arts. Should the worst case scenario ever take place, why wouldn't you use every bit of magic available to you to defeat Lord Voldemort?"_

_But it's Dark Magic,_ is what he wants to write down, when he realizes that's not really a good enough reason for avoiding it at all, is it? He supposes some curses could be useful, but he can't ever see himself becoming a full-fledged practitioner or the Dark Arts, not with all the gruesome spells and rituals that it contains. _"It's still called the Dark Arts for a reason. It's the only branch of magic Voldemort uses and look what he turned into." _

_"Yes, he became the greatest dark wizard known to man, immortalized through his name alone. A fate worse than death, surely." _Sarcasm. There are times where Tom's sarcasm is amusing, and then there are moments like these where Harry considers just slamming the diary shut and shoving it down to the bottom of his trunk._  
_

_"Okay, I get it." _Harry pens the words down reluctantly, and even though it is of great annoyance to him and he has a lot more things to say, he doesn't want to cause a dispute over this. _"But I'm still not convinced." _

_"I'd be disappointed if a few pretty words were all it took to persuade you, Harry."_

He doesn't reply, letting the conversation fall to a stop, having nothing more to say on the subject. He's still a bit sleepy as it is quite early and he stayed up too late last night, chatting with Tom as well. Talking to him has become so captivating that Harry fears he'll get bored of Ron and Hermione some day.

His mind blanks, as it does when you've just woken up a few minutes ago, and he lets the sleepy haze cloud over his thoughts, a finger tracing the edge of the diary's leather cover, the gesture delicate but absentminded at the same time. He thumbs the upper tip that bends slightly under the pressure, and while he knows he might as well get ready for the journey to Hogwarts, he has at least another hour. He yawns and considers going back to sleep.

_"Are you getting bored?" _

Harry blinks, flustered at the words that appear very suddenly on the top of the left page. He quickly dips the tip of his quill into the ink bottle again to write back.

_"How can you tell?" _

The reply takes about three seconds, which is two seconds longer than usual. _"I can sense it. I don't think I need to tell you that our connection has been growing stronger, do I?" _No, he certainly doesn't. _"Have you noticed anything strange happening to you lately, Harry? Like fatigue or sudden headaches, for instance?" _Tom inquires, and while Harry is confused as to the purpose of the question, he responds anyway.

_"Not really. Why d'you ask?"_

_"No particular reason, I'm just making sure you're doing alright." _

Harry ordinarily would think nothing of it, but after the argument they've just had he's less generous in his trust and ponders on it for a whole minute. As friendly as Tom is, he hardly is the type to ask if someone is "doing alright". Usually he can just _tell_, making any inquiries redundant, at least with Harry, but he'd bet Tom could read anyone like an open book. So why the question?

_"Should I be expecting something strange to happen to me?" _

When it takes over three seconds this time for Tom to respond to him, he's convinced there's something going on here that he's not aware of. _"Don't worry about it, it's not worth your attention." _Harry frowns deeply, and puts his quill down again to scribble a protest, when Tom adds something. _"Would you like to see another memory?" _

Harry pauses. As much as he knows this is a blatant tactic of evasion, Tom is willing to show him another piece of his past, which is kind of a big deal considering how private of a person he is otherwise, letting precious little slip about his previous life. If he says no now, Harry fears Tom might never show him again, so for this time he concedes, and he watches the pages flutter, stopping very suddenly somewhere midway the diary, _January 23rd, 1943 _written at the top.

He is sucked in for the second time and lands in a large, dusty classroom he suspects is somewhere in the dungeons from the lack of windows and the chains hanging from the ceiling, torches lit on the walls. It looks old and unused, probably forgotten for the most part. All the chairs and tables have been pushed to the sides, and a group of several Slytherins (most of them boys) are surrounding two others who stand on opposite ends.

One of them he recognizes instantly. The tall boy with dark eyes and neatly parted, wavy jet-black hair is undoubtedly Tom, poised with cool confidence, his gaze pinned down on the other person standing across from him. Harry doesn't recognize him. He has a head full of unruly, shoulder-length brown hair and very light blue eyes, scowling in either displeasure or intense concentration. Maybe both.

"Shall we get this over with, then?" Tom suggests, his tone smooth as silk and bordering on nonchalant. There's a hushed whispering through the small crowd gathered, most of them betting_—_not on _who_ will win, but on how long it will take for _Tom_ to win.

"Wands at the ready," someone standing near the middle says, Harry barely paying attention to them as he moves closer to Tom's side, intensely curious and excited to see him duel. While the brown-haired boy raises his wand in stance, Tom does no such thing, merely watching as if an observer and not an actual participant. His stare is transfixed on his opponent, whose eyes are wide with fear. "Begin!"

_"Stupefy! Petrificus Totalus! Everte Statum!" _the other boy exclaims, moving his wand first in three successive motions, almost panicked. Tom wards it off with a casual swishing motion of his own wand, and Harry can see a translucent shield (though it looks more like a wall) forming in front of him, the spells hitting it causing a slight ripple, a crack, and with the third breaking it, but not reaching Tom otherwise, who takes a slow step forward.

_"Immobulus!" _

Tom does not even bother to use his wand for defense here; the spark that shoots out of the brunet's wand is already almost entirely off target, and all Tom has to do to avoid it is step aside. It hits the wall behind him, though nothing happens. Harry recognizes it as a freezing charm of some sort, thinks he might have even seen Hermione use it last year. Tom keeps walking, slowly, step by step, radiating danger as if a predator slowly stalking his prey.

"_Vipera Igneus!" _

A large stream of fire now shoots from the boy's wand, causing gasps and shrieks from the people in the crowd that are standing too close. It takes the shape of a snake, hissing as it lunges. Tom looks entirely unperturbed, makes a circular motion with his wand, and the room's atmosphere shifts strangely. The air swirls and creates a kind of vortex around the snake, almost as if sucking up the flames, extinguishing them instantly. Harry has been holding his breath the whole time; he can almost _see _the aura of power Tom exudes, the air around him warped strangely, crackling with electricity.

"_Expulso!" _

Tom casts his own spell and the two collide in mid-air, creating a burst of green and purple sparks, like fireworks.

"_CRUCIO!" _the brunet desperately shouts as what seems a last resort, a spell cast from his wand that Tom deflects with his own as if swatting away a fly. The boy's hand that is holding up his wand is shaking.

Tom hasn't used an offensive spell once and hasn't said a single word, either, simply nearing him with slow steps until there's only three meters between them. It seems he's just been waiting for his opponent to run out of tricks, when he lashes out with his wand as if handling a whip_—_an invisible one that hits the brunet's hand, dropping his wand instantly and yelping.

Harry wonders only for a second why Tom didn't just use the standard Disarming Charm when he spots the large, red cut on the boy's palm, blood dripping down onto the floor. He looks positively terrified when Tom raises his wand again.

"_Compedio." _

Something black shoots out of his wand_—_shackles, clasping around the boy's ankles that are then tugged upwards with a gesture of Tom's wand and lift him into the air, the boy's arms flailing helplessly, the Slytherins around him cheering him on. The chains that hang from the ceiling shoot down and wrap around the one that connects his shackles, and he's left hanging there, lightly swinging from side to side, face slowly turning red.

While the rest of the crowd gathered jeers at the defeated boy and looks generally amused at his expense, Tom's expression is grim.

"Any other challengers?" he asks, his voice cutting clear through all the other noise in the room and instantly silencing everyone. He looks around, darkly glinting grey eyes searching off the crowd. Harry notices most of the other students avoid direct eye-contact, and some become even fidgety. "No one?" Tom feigns disappointment. "Here I thought you'd all be _dying _to use the spells I taught you against me_—_isn't that right, Mulciber?" He turns to the boy hanging from the chains, face the shade of a tomato, expression contorted in pain and fear.

"I_—" _

Tom raises his wand and points at Mulciber with a steely gaze. "_Crucio." _

The memory cuts off before the effects of the spell are displayed to Harry.

He feels a sudden pull and within seconds he lands back onto his bed in his room in the Leaky Cauldron, feeling breathless at what he's just witnessed. Tom deflected and neutralized those spells with such ease he almost looked bored doing it, and all of it non-verbally at that, though he supposes it's only logical as Tom in the memory did say he was the one who taught them to Mulciber and the others in the first place.

Harry suspected Tom had to be a skilled wizard with all his knowledge before, but he expected him to be more like Hermione, keeping most of it with theory. Now he understands that he's been underestimating him this entire time. Harry only recognized a single spell from the entire duel; there's still so much that he has yet to learn.

_"That was amazing!" _is the first thing Harry writes when he gathers himself back together.

_"I take it you are impressed." _Tom notes, Harry sensing amusement from him. _"I could instruct you on how to learn those spells, if you'd like. Especially with Black roaming free and plotting to kill you, it would be a good idea for you to learn how to defend yourself properly." _

_"Of course, I'd love to learn!" _Harry replies so hastily the ink almost blurs together.

_"Well, I'm glad I'll have such an eager student." _

For a moment Harry thinks he hears the faint sound of a chuckle, but it's too indistinct for him to be sure, and escapes him again as soon as he catches it, slipping away like smoke. He's forced to write it off to his imagination, but he can't help but think it has something to do with their connection getting stronger, as Tom said earlier. He replays the memory in his head, and realizes it seemed a bit more detailed than before. It could be him over-thinking it, but things seemed sharper, more real.

Harry does have a curiosity now he's caught a glimpse of Tom's talent. A wizard who was already that talented at such a young age must have turned into someone truly extraordinary and awe-inspiring in his later years. Yet why has Harry never heard of the name Tom Riddle before? He puts his quill down on the page to ask him about it_—_could it be that he died at an early age and this diary is a legacy he left of himself? Or did something even worse happen?

There's a knock on his door that interrupts him before he can get a single word down, Ron calling him from the other side. Harry is a bit disappointed he has to cut the conversation short here, but it's for a very good reason.

He's finally leaving for Hogwarts.


	4. Chapter Four

**A/N: **Such great support, thank you all so much! Here's this next chapter, then. I managed to cram about three chapters from the original Prisoner of Azkaban book into this one, so it's a bit lengthy. If it's too boring (which I fear it is) I apologize in advance. Constructive criticism is always welcome. Enjoy!

* * *

LITHIUM

**CHAPTER FOUR**

It is during this third year train ride that he discovers true fear.

He's been afraid before, but it is an experience incomparable to past occurrences. The cloaked figure that stands in the doorway of their compartment is the most terrifying thing Harry has ever seen, even more so than Voldemort himself. At least Voldemort could speak, at least he had a plan, at least he had emotions, at least he was a _person_—people can be defeated. That was his comfort when he confronted the dark wizard in his first year.

This thing in front of him, that stares at him without eyes, that sucks all the warmth out of his blood by its mere presence, is not a person. It is the personification of a feeling. How do you defeat a feeling?

Harry's mind is overwhelmed as the hooded creature floats nearer to him while he's nailed to the ground. An embodiment of despair and hopelessness, feeding off his soul like a starved leech. Death itself, digging its claws into his throat and cutting off his windpipe. The cry of a woman, distant echoes terrorizing his mind as if long forgotten nightmares having come back to haunt him.

He can't breathe. He can't think. He's swallowed up completely.

Everything is dark, and cold. So cold.

Later, when he wakes up, when the warmth comes back to his fingertips and the screams are gone, he discovers the name of his fear. _Dementor_—reminds him of the word _dementia_. Something with going insane, he remembers.

When he realizes after coming to that he is the only one who actually fainted, a thick feeling of embarrassment crawling down his back makes it difficult to face his friends, who are all eyeing him worriedly. Even Ginny, who just last year did her best to avoid him completely, is concerned as she watches him stare at the chocolate bar the new professor gave to him before leaving to talk to the conductor.

He tries to downplay it, but even he knows this isn't something he'll just be able to get over. Professor Lupin is so kind not to make a huge deal out of it, offering only gentle reassurance and urging him to just eat the chocolate, and Harry almost thinks (naively and against his better judgment) that he _can _get over it.

Then the train arrives and outside Malfoy taunts him for the incident, and that's when he knows the whole school must have heard it by now. His heart drops into his stomach. _Harry Potter fainted_.

His woes aren't lessened when Professor Dumbledore announces during the Start-of-Term Feast that the Dementors will be sticking around—naturally, because of Sirius Black.

The mixed cocktail of shame and ire swirling in his chest makes it difficult for him to be his regular, friendly self. Ron and Hermione notice, but they leave him be. They know him well enough to understand when he needs space.

The very thought of telling Tom that he _fainted _because of a Dementor, a thing he bets Tom with all his know-how and talent could easily best, intensifies the humiliation.

That first night he leaves the diary closed, and curls up underneath his blankets, falling fast asleep.

* * *

When Harry, Ron, and Hermione enter the Great Hall for breakfast the next day, the first thing they see is Draco Malfoy, who seems to be entertaining a large group of Slytherins with a very funny story. As they pass, Malfoy does a ridiculous impression of a swooning fit and a roar of laughter follows.

"Ignore him," Hermione says, walking right behind Harry. "Just ignore him, it's not worth it..."

Even when they sit down at the Gryffindor table and the Weasley twins attempt to cheer him up, Harry's mood stays downtrodden, staring down at his breakfast plate and trying to block out the noise from the green-and-silver clad table. He barely even looks at the new course schedule he's handed, putting it aside and stuffing a piece of toast in his mouth instead.

Ron and Hermione argue over _her _new schedule in the meantime, though she blatantly waves away all Ron's protests and exclamations that following three subjects at the same time (Divination, Arithmancy and Muggle Studies) should be impossible. Even when Ron then takes a look at Harry's schedule, stating instantly how lucky he is with having the first period free, Harry merely shrugs. The only time he actually looks up to pay attention to anything other than the food is when Hagrid walks in.

"All righ'?" he says eagerly, pausing on his way to the staff table. "Yer in my firs' ever lesson! Right after lunch! Bin up since five getting' everthin' ready... hope it's okay... me, a teacher... hones'ly..."

'_At least he's having a good day.' _Harry thinks with a morose expression painted on his face, poking haplessly at his sausages with his fork.

The Hall is starting to empty as people head off towards their first lesson.

Ron checks his schedule. "We'd better go. Look, Divination's at the top of North Tower. It'll take us ten minutes to get there..." He turns to Harry with a slight frown. "Hey, cheer up, mate. At least you've got a free period."

"I wouldn't hang around here if I were you, Harry." Hermione warns him, glancing at the Slytherin table. "I think Malfoy's got a free period too." As is evidenced by how most of his friends stand up and leave while he and just a few others stick around.

That means Malfoy has to be taking Ancient Runes as well. Harry's mood plummets further.

His friends are off and after forcing himself to empty his plate, he decides to get up and take a walk—anything to be as far away from Malfoy and his ilk as possible. He can go up to the dorms and talk to Tom, but he knows he'll have to tell him about the Dementor attack and he's not looking forward to admitting something so degrading. Instead he decides exploring Hogwarts again is probably a better idea. He figures he can amuse himself for at least fifteen minutes just by observing the paintings.

Having decided upon what to do with his free period, Harry leaves the Great Hall and sets out to roam the Hogwarts grounds. He doesn't spare much thought about where he's going, though he does his best to avoid other students, which proves impossible. Wherever he turns he finds groups of others wandering, and while he does his best to steer clear of the Slytherins, inevitably he runs into one or two small cliques, mainly other third years, that make snide remarks or imitate the fainting incident.

Now he pays attention, he notices that the only Slytherins that go out of their way to pester him are either his peers or juniors—older students in the House give him a few looks here and there but nothing that he isn't used to from everyone else. It's somewhat of a surprising revelation; now he thinks about it, he can't remember a single occasion where he'd been bullied by older Slytherins. Malfoy's influence must not reach that far, but still far enough to make his day miserable.

He wonders how he overlooked this fact, on one hand realizing he's made quite the powerful enemy in Malfoy, and on the other hand feeling a tad bit disappointed in himself; he's been grouping the whole House together to be a bunch of evil, Muggle-hating bullies.

Ending up at the moving maze of stairways, Harry looks around at the paintings. The first one that catches his eye is one of a group of men discussing something over what seems to be a corpse on the table. Harry blinks and stares, and while he can't see any blood or guts hanging out, he's fairly positive one of them is sticking something sharp and pointy into the dead man's torso.

Harry goes up a few steps to study the painting more closely, wondering why he's never noticed it before. He supposes the faded colouring, the smaller size and the fact that it's in between a really colourful painting of a beautiful mermaid and a long picture of two knights in an eternal jousting match would make one overlook it.

"And so, if you cut through this part here…" The only man wearing a black hat, who's sticking something metallic in the body, suddenly looks to him. "Another student? Well, you're a bit late for class."

"I don't have any classes right now." Harry corrects him, confused to the painted man's question.

"You're not here for the anatomy lecture?"

He opens and then slowly closes his mouth, befuddled by the odd misunderstanding. "Then that's-I mean, is that a dead body? A real one?" He feels stupid for phrasing it that way as it is a _painting _after all, but to the characters inside the painting it is very real.

"Why, of course!" the man with the hat exclaims with a deep frown, almost seeming insulted. "Look here, see for yourself!" He reaches delicately inside the hole on the man's torso and pulls out something pink-looking. "This here is the liver—"

Harry instantly turns away, shielding his eyes as he feels bile rising in the back of his throat. "No, no, thank you, I believe you, please put that back!"

"Some paintings are best left alone," someone behind him notes wryly. Harry turns around and sees the ruffled form of Professor Lupin, who has something quite large floating behind him, covered by a thick, black sheet. "Curiosity in moderation, Harry."

"Hello, Professor." he greets the man a bit embarrassedly, glancing back to the painting once to see it has gone back to its anatomy lecture with the characters, now ignoring him completely. He turns back to his new Professor, eying the large thing floating behind him curiously. "Er, what's in there?"

Professor Lupin glanced over his shoulder. Harry picks up on some faint sounds—water splashing, and an almost angry hissing noise. "This here? Would you like to see?" he suggests cheerfully.

"Sure."

"Come along, then. You can help me feed it." At Harry's disturbed look the Professor grins. "Not to worry, we'll only be feeding it fish." He goes up the stairs, passing Harry who steps to the side to let what he suspects is a tank through, following after the new Professor and deciding he already likes him much better than his two previous ones. _Much _better. Then again that isn't a difficult standard to surpass, considering one was a talentless narcissist and the other was basically Lord Voldemort.

They end up in classroom 3C, the regular room for Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons which smells oddly salty, and Professor Lupin puts the tank down near the windows near the corner, in direct sunlight, before he pulls the cover of the tank off.

Harry is a bit taken aback at the ugly looking creature that splashes around violently in the water before it starts calming down, allowing him to get a better look at it. It has the lower body of an octopus, its skin a sickly green colour, and it has little horns and long, spindly fingers, its sharp teeth bared and glinting, though it seems oddly placated in the sunlight.

"That is a grindylow." Professor Lupin explains casually, reaching into a bucket that is sitting on his desk and pulling out a raw fish. That explains the smell. "I'll be teaching you about them later this year, but for now all you have to know is that they're carnivores." He tosses the fish into the tank, and Harry watches it instantly get devoured by the grindylow, so fast it barely leaves any blood in the water.

He's hesitant to feed it now, as if fearing it will somehow jump out of its tank and bite his hand off, but when Professor Lupin hands him a fish he's not about to chicken out. He decides to keep a distance and depend on his aim, throwing it into the tank and with an almost morbid fascination watching the grindylow swallow it down within seconds.

"So what's our first lesson going to be about, if it isn't about grindylows?" Harry asks, making conversation as he watches the grindylow now swim about, up and down, clearly unhappy about its limited space in the tank.

"Boggarts," Professor Lupin responds. "It should be an interesting class, though—" He hesitates slightly, "—I don't think you should participate for the first lesson."

"What? Why not?"

"A boggart is a shape-shifting creature that takes on the form of its victim's worst fear. I'll have the class practice a charm on it, but…"

It took Harry only a second to realize what the Professor was concerned about. "You think it'll turn into Voldemort." When all he receives is silence, he feels he should probably correct him. "It won't. I think… I think it would rather turn into a Dementor, actually."

"I see," Lupin said thoughtfully. "Well, well… I'm impressed." He smiles slightly at the look of surprise on Harry's face. "That suggests that what you fear most of all is fear itself. Very wise, Harry."

He doesn't know what to say to this compliment, feeling a bit awkward standing around the tank next to the man, his hands now smelling like raw fish. He hasn't noticed the Professor gazing at him until he turns his head to glance at him.

The man looks almost apologetic at being caught staring. "You look exactly like your father."

Harry is so taken aback by the statement that it takes him a while to process it. "You-you knew my father?"

"Yes, I did," Professor Lupin answers while reaching into the bucket to grab another fish. "He was a great man."

He doesn't know how to reply. It's the first time he's heard someone talk about his father; Professor Lupin remarking right afterwards that he has his mother's eyes. Even after the grindylow has been fed, Harry stays in the classroom, asking the Professor about his parents. What kind of people were they? Were they both in Gryffindor? How were they in school? When did they fall in love, when did they get married, were they happy before their deaths?

Professor Lupin answers most of his questions as extensively as he can, seeming sympathetic to Harry's need to know more. He's a bit evasive about some things, particularly when talking about his father's other friends, and though Harry doesn't understand why and wants to ask about it, he doesn't want to come across as rude.

The discoveries he makes during that free period makes him forget about his fainting from the Dementor completely. Apparently his mother was one of the best students in her class, especially talented in Potions and Charms. She was kind, compassionate, helpful towards other students, and _friends with Snape_. It takes several assurances from Professor Lupin to make Harry believe he's not just messing with him before he believes it. Could Snape have been a pleasant person when he was younger? Or perhaps his mother was just a saint?

His father Professor Lupin describes as being the more mischievous type. He was a troublemaker, but very popular for his talent as Gryffindor's Seeker, and particularly skilled in Transfiguration and various hexes and jinxes. Harry also gets the impression (though Professor Lupin is heavy on using polite euphemisms) that he had somewhat of an inflated ego in his early years. He and Snape did not get along whatsoever as well. Harry supposes that explains the currently bad relationship between him and the Potions Master plenty.

When he failed to have any talent in Potions, unlike his mother, and took such a defensive attitude towards Snape's taunting, he probably just confirmed that he was indeed his father's son and had inherited precious little of his mother's qualities. Which in his mind just proves that Snape is a resentful git, really. When he voices his conclusion to Professor Lupin, he seems a bit sceptical.

"On the contrary, I think you have a lot of your mother's character." he replies, marking down notes in a fifth year textbook. "James was… he had a sensitive ego." The careful phrasing is rather humorous to Harry, though he's also a bit surprised at hearing it. He never would've imagined his father to be overconfident or arrogant. "Lily was always kind, unprejudiced and patient, but strong when she needed to be, particularly with James. He matured a lot in his last few years in Hogwarts, mostly thanks to her."

Unprejudiced and patient? Harry can't say that those two qualities apply entirely to him. He's impulsive at times, prefers actions instead of thinking things through, and with the way he's been biased against the entirety of Slytherin House, prejudice is something he knows fairly well.

"I think you should be getting to your next class now, Harry." Professor Lupin remarks after glancing at the clock hanging on the wall after the last half hour passes.

"Right," Harry still has a hundred more questions to ask, but is already elated by everything he managed to uncover during this one, hour-long conversation. "Thank you, Professor. For, you know, telling me about my parents."

Professor Lupin smiles, though Harry thinks there's something sad about it. "It's only right that you should know about them."

Harry nods, picking up his bag which he left on a table, figuring he should leave now before he's late for class, and being late for McGonagall's first lesson of the year is never a great way to start.

* * *

It amuses him when he's the most cheerful person in Transfiguration and the only one who claps at Professor McGonagall's Animagus transformation (which really is quite an incredible thing to witness). Apparently Divination didn't go very well for his fellow Gryffindors, Seamus Finnigan looking so pale Harry almost thinks he might pass out at any minute. Turns out that Seamus' death was predicted by the Divination Professor, which had put the lot of them in a rather gloomy mood.

Professor McGonagall brushes the foretelling off, however, and Harry is very relieved that Tom convinced him to choose Ancient Runes as his elective in his second year.

The class passes rather quickly for Harry, who's actually doing his best now to keep up with what the professor is teaching them. Transfiguration was his father's best subject, so it's hardly an option for him to perform poorly at it. Lunch passes even faster, and before he knows it, it's time for the next course of the day.

Harry is pleased to get out of the castle after the break. Yesterday's rain has faded from the landscape; the sky is a clear, pale grey, and the grass is springy and damp underfoot as he and his two friends set off for their first ever Care of Magical Creatures class.

Ron and Hermione are talking (arguing) about the legitimacy of Professor Trelawney's (Harry assumes that's the Divination teacher) class. Harry walks beside them in silence as they go down the sloping lawns to Hagrid's hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. It is only when he spots three very familiar backs ahead of them that he realizes they must be having these lessons with the Slytherins. Malfoy is talking animatedly to Crabbe and Goyle, who are chortling loudly.

Harry wouldn't have paid any attention to them ordinarily, but he remembers his conversation with Professor Lupin. His mother's best friend was a Slytherin—not someone like Tom, but _Snape _of all Slytherins at that. Harry understands now that he has been treating the House unfairly, and maybe he can prove Snape wrong and follow his mother's example instead.

He feels like an idiot and is mostly sure this is going to backfire horribly, but in his mother's memory, he's willing to give it a shot. "I'll be right back." he says to his two friends, before running off ahead.

"Harry, where are you going?" Hermione calls after him, sounding a bit alarmed.

"Just stay there!" Harry calls back, not wanting this to go awry right off the bat as he approaches the three Slytherins in front of him. "Hey, Malfoy!"

The blond boy stops and turns around, and Harry sees his hand lingering near the edge of his robes, probably close to his wand. Crabbe and Goyle straighten up, trying to look extra intimidating, not that it has any effect on harry.

"What do you want, Potter?" Malfoy sneers, crossing his arms with a scowl.

"I was just wondering," He takes a pause when he realizes he barely knows what to say or how to convey his thoughts into coherent sentences, so he decides to wing it. "Can we have a truce?"

"A truce?"

He would've snickered at the look of confusion on the arrogant blond's face any other time, but if he does _that _there wasn't a doubt in his mind Malfoy will attempt to hex him on the spot. "Yeah, look, I know you don't like me and I don't like you much either, but this whole proactively-hating-each-other thing is getting old real fast." The frown on Malfoy's pointed face deepens and he opens his mouth to cut in, which Harry doesn't let him. "I'm just saying that instead of going out of our way to make each other miserable, we could just, er, try to ignore each other?"

Malfoy narrows his eyes slightly, before a slight smirk quirks his lips. "I suppose you want me to stop making fun of you for fainting like a little girl because of the Dementor?"

'_You conceited bastard, I should—' _Harry takes a deep breath. _'Okay, calm down, don't respond to that. You're the bigger person here, like mum would've wanted you to be.'_

"No, that's-that's fine, whatever, you can keep doing that." he manages to brush it aside, and even if there is a thick undertone of irritation in his voice Malfoy looks surprised (and displeased). "I mean as long as you leave me and my friends alone, it doesn't matter to me."

Malfoy is silent for a while, students passing them while giving curious glances in the meantime. Harry has no idea where Ron and Hermione are but he assumes they are standing around back, waiting for him to finish talking to Malfoy—who responds in a typical Slytherin fashion.

"What's in it for me?"

Harry suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. "Not having _The Boy Who Lived _on your list of enemies is a pretty good start."

Malfoy isn't stupid; he knows very well that a truce would have no downsides for the either of them, giving Potter no incentive to lie to him. It's not as if Potter is proposing a friendship here, anyway, and he'd still be able to mock and deride him with his mates. And Potter does have a point; it can't be a bad thing to have such a famous wizard on his list of _potential _allies, should he ever be in need of one. He is still a bit suspicious, however.

"What brought this on, Potter?" he demands to know in that bossy tone of a boy who's had everything else handed to him on a silver platter, inducing mild feelings of enmity from Harry who does his best not to show it and remain neutral.

He shrugs in reply. "Like I said, it's getting old."

There's another pause, and finally Malfoy says, "I'll think about it," before leaving with his two bodyguards in tow to join the lesson.

Hagrid's first class goes very smoothly. Harry gets to approach the Hippogriff that is introduced to the class as Buckbeak and even gets to ride it. Though the rest of the students are impressed, they are reluctant to go closer to the rest of the flock of Hippogriffs present, but ultimately all goes well and no one is injured.

Draco Malfoy is silent during the entire lesson, and for once Harry feels slightly proud of himself.

* * *

"_You're expecting too much of your wand," _Tom writes when Harry explains he just can't seem to get the freezing charm to work. _"The motions and the words mean very little when there is no intent behind it. They are merely methods to get you accustomed to using a certain spell and to ensure you don't confuse it with something else. Your pronunciation and wand movement can be perfect, but if there is no will behind it, you'll accomplish nothing. Focus less on the how, and more on the __**what**__."_

Harry scowls at the fly buzzing around in the dorms. He has hidden Tom's diary into his Charms textbook, pretending to be reading from it and practicing by theory instead of being taught by a memory inside blank pages. Ron is sitting on his bed, reading through a history book and writing what seems to be a half-hearted draft for his essay.

"You know you could just ask Hermione to help you," he remarks when Harry looks like he's on the brink of losing his patience. "She knows how to do it."

"No, I can figure this out on my own." Harry aims at the innocent fly, the tip of his wand following it tenaciously.

'_Focus on the what.' _What did he want to do? He wanted to freeze the fly in mid-air. He wanted to immobilize it. _'Stay still already!' _The fly nearly zooms into Harry's glasses._ '_

"_Immobulus!"_

The fly explodes.

"Oh, gross!" Ron looks thoroughly disgusted and Harry groans, looking down at the tiny little remains of the poor fly on the floor with a glum look. "A bit too much, yeah?"

"Yeah," Harry mumbles, sinking down onto the edge of his bed and looking at the diary, reading the words that surface with an amused flair to them.

"_I suppose it _is _immobilized now, though I doubt that's what you had in mind." _

Immobilized is an understatement; the fly is definitely dead. Harry doesn't write anything back in spite of the thought, however. Tom, who is now strongly connected to his magic, said before that he can sense the kind of spells he uses. It is quite the fortunate development, as this way Harry doesn't have to write back constantly to explain what went wrong or what he did to try to make it work, not to mention that it'll look less odd to whoever is around.

"_Keep your emotions in check. If you cannot perform such a simple freezing spell, how do you expect to learn the Patronus charm?" _Harry almost winces at that. When he returned to the dorms after classes he'd been unable to delay talking to Tom any longer, and so ended up telling him all about the train attack (as well as how the rest of his day went, though he seemed a bit less interested in that).

It wasn't as embarrassing as Harry anticipated. Tom didn't make any remarks aside from stating the trouble it could pose considering the Dementors would be guarding Hogwarts from now on. He was a bit surprised initially though, stating he hadn't expected Harry to have such a heavy reaction, but concluding it to be logical considering his past and reassuring him fainting wasn't all that uncommon for some. It made Harry feel a bit better; less ashamed, in any case.

Tom then proposed teaching him the spell that wards off Dementors, but underlined it was a very difficult bit of magic to learn for most, and so they would first work on some of the charms Harry had seen in Tom's memory instead. Those would be very useful in duels and battles, just in case he ever runs into Black or any other of Voldemort's followers, which was a clear priority.

Harry knows he has to get this spell right, but now he's out of test subjects to practice on. Ron closes his history textbook and starts throwing it up into the air, suggesting Harry practice on that instead.

"Try not to hit me, though," he adds a bit nervously. "In case you blow me up."

"Right." Harry follows the book's constant ascent and descent, trying to concentrate on what he wants to happen. Since it isn't making an annoying buzzing-noise and it isn't attempting to stab Harry in the eye, it's easier. _"Immobulus!"_

A blue spark shoots out of his wand and hits the book, making it freeze at the apex of its jump for a few seconds before it suddenly falls down and hits Ron on the head, who'd been staring up at it in mixed wonder and nervosity.

"Ow."

"Sorry," Harry says sheepishly, though he can't hide his triumphant smile, immediately glancing down at the diary.

"_Good," _He's happy with Tom's response, until something is added. _"Now practice it until you think you've mastered it. Only after that will we move on to the Stunning Spell." _

Harry actually gets his quill now, dipping it quickly in Ron's ink bottle to write back. The Stunning Spell doesn't sound bad, but… _"What about the giant flaming snake? I really think—" _

"_Harry, if you attempt a spell that complex at your current skill level, you're more likely to light your own robes on fire than come anywhere near success." _

Either Tom didn't believe Harry belligerent enough to ignore his advice, or didn't think he'd be foolhardy enough to try—perhaps forgetting for a moment that he was talking to Gryffindor. As such, Harry frowns and becomes stubborn, thinking it can't be that hard if it's all about your willpower. He raises his wand. _"Vipera Igneus!" _

His sleeve bursts into flames and he stupidly drops his wand, frantically patting down at it. Ron curses and in his mild panic overdoes his water spell, the spray of liquid far too much and soaking Harry and his textbook entirely. The diary remains perfectly dry. At least the fire is out now.

Harry stares at Ron, who stares back.

"Was that necessary?"

"You lit yourself on fire, mate."

He can't really argue, and instead looks down at the diary, fascinated by how the drops of water falling down from his face and hair are repelled by the pages, as if an invisible glass cover is protecting it.

It's then that he feels a sort of weariness radiating from the diary, and hears a distant sigh originating from the pages. _"Perhaps you'll think twice the next time you decide to ignore my advice." _Being too taken in by the sound he just heard, Harry can hardly be sorry for it, but decides to put the diary aside for now and dry himself

* * *

Malfoy has been pleasantly ignoring Harry's existence for the past couple of days, which he can only take as a sign that his proposal for truce was accepted. Ron is of the firm opinion it'll come back to bite him in the arse, but Hermione approves of Harry's initiative wholeheartedly. Tom seems pleased with it as well, noting it was a wise move of him to make, which Harry isn't so sure about, seeing as he only did it to honour his mother's memory and not for any sort of future scheme or whatever it is Tom is thinking about.

Tom, by the way, is a bit irritated with Harry as he sometimes tends to leave the diary behind in his dorms now. Harry isn't entirely happy with having to hide it from his two closest friends, but Tom insisted on keeping him a secret for now, and Harry doesn't want to betray his trust, but if he has to keep him a secret then keeping the diary on him at all times is a bit risky. Tom reasons it'll be fine to just keep it in his bag—as he grows stronger, he can pick up on what's happening in the diary's environment, and at least that way he'll have some entertainment in the lessons Harry is following.

Harry isn't one to deny Tom such requests, so he hides the diary dutifully in an inner pocket of his school bag, not even actually taking it out to write in. At times, he feels odd fluctuations coming from it in waves, like a soft breeze, charged with whatever emotion Tom is feeling at the time. More often than not, he's attentive. A rare few times he's amused (especially so when another potion or charm blows up in Seamus' face), sometimes a bit bored (when the teachers start lecturing things he already knows), and sometimes he's even annoyed (when teachers fail at properly lecturing things he already knows, though then he takes it upon himself to properly educate Harry once the class is over).

Harry likes to spend his time by trying to sense all the things Tom is feeling when he doesn't feel like paying attention to his lessons. He's been told off for it more than once, and is starting to gain the reputation of being unfocused among his professors.

As for Harry's courses in his perspective, they're going alright. Care of Magical Creatures quickly becomes one of the most popular classes of the year, the practical lessons with the Hippogriffs becoming a favourite among the students. Potions is still Harry's most detested subject, as it seems that even with him trying harder for it now, Snape just goes to more lengths to make him fail. The Potions Master seems convinced he's doing it for his own ego. At this point Harry is starting to give up on the subject altogether.

Ancient Runes is surprisingly interesting. While Professor Bathsheda Babbling tends to drift away from the actual lessons somewhat and, well, babbles a lot, Harry finds that the translations and meanings behind the runes are a pretty fascinating thing to study, and even when he gets something wrong or doesn't get it at all, Hermione is always glad to help him figure it out. He's especially attentive when Professor Babbling mentions old magic rituals in which the runes are utilized, or links them back to epic stories of great wizards and witches in the past. It's certainly much better than "reading" soggy tea leaves out of a small cup, though he gets tired of translating entire paragraphs sometimes.

Then, of course, there is Defence Against the Dark Arts. The Boggart turns out to be a real nasty little thing to deal with. Some of the boggart's forms are equally unpleasant for everyone (such as the giant spider or the large snake) and some are more humorous (Snape-boggart). Seeing his classmates conquer their own fears successfully, he starts feeling better about his turn in the line. If they can do it, why can't he?

When Harry's turn comes to face it after Ron takes care of his huge tarantula, the now-legless spider rolls around slowly before it predictably morphs into a Dementor with a _crack_. That's where the class ends, as Harry is once again overwhelmed by the icy feeling of dread, and so are all of his peers though it is beyond his notice.

_"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"_

_"Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now…."_

He knows those voices. He's certain he does, but the names and the faces escape him like sand slipping through his fingers.

_"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—"_

Even faced with a mere imitation of his actual fear, the counter-spell slips out of his grasp. Those eyeless holes bore through him like a drill through soft soil. There's a screaming, that same screaming again, a woman crying out in utter terror somewhere in the back of his mind.

_"Not Harry! Please… have mercy… have mercy…."_

With a shock of distress he realizes who it is that he's hearing. Lily Potter, his mother—begging for Harry's life. His chest constricts, his heart aching with every beat.

But the other voice, the other voice is Voldemort's. It is different from the voice he remembers hearing in his first year; younger, clear, stronger, smooth, it reminds him of—

He falls into black, passes out before he even hits the ground, and there is only that single scream, like a broken record looping over into his head endlessly, relentlessly. Somewhere in his subconscious his world becomes encompassed by the fear, and there is a part of him that thinks he'll never escape it, that he'll be trapped, forever having to listen to his mum's cries.

"_Harry, wake up." _

His chest starts feeling a tad bit lighter, the whisper a warm caress that soothes over the ice in his lungs. The panic slowly starts ebbing away, making it easier to breathe.

"_You're safe, w__ake up." _

His eyelids slid open and there's a tall figure leaning over him. The lines are blurred, but for a moment all he sees are dark grey eyes, and his fear is gone.

"Tom?" he groans, trying to focus, his head aching slightly. It's oddly dark.

When his sight clears up he's met with the confused and worried expressions of Ron and Hermione. Professor Lupin is looking down at him as well from the peripheries of his vision, eyebrows furrowed in mild concern. He faintly realizes the whole class has crowded around him, which is why it seemed so dark.

"Give him some space, everyone." Professor Lupin says calmly, shooing his classmates (except for Ron and Hermione) a distance away.

"Harry," Hermione starts carefully, "who's Tom?"

He blinks a few times, still feeling dazed. He was so sure—was it a hallucination? Nothing more than his own mind playing a trick on him, or perhaps trying to escape the suffocating cold of the Dementor-boggart? Harry sits up, and shakes his head, eyes drifting off to his school bag that's sitting on top of his table. His heartbeat gradually slows down into a regular rhythm.

"No one," Harry answers quietly when he's no longer scared of dropping dead from a heart attack, wondering why the light is making such an odd shadow near his bag, as if in the shape of a person. Then he wonders why no one else is seeing it. "He's no one."


	5. Chapter Five

**A/N: **So the most dreadful thing happened this week; my laptop crashed and my hard disk was utterly ruined. The next five chapters that I had already written out for this story are now completely lost and I'm forced to rewrite nearly 20k words. I feel so incredibly frustrated and if it's not too much to ask, I could really use some support from you guys before I tear all the hair out of my head. It's going to take a lot to get my motivation back. Anyway, enough whining from me! I managed to rewrite this chapter in a few days, and I hope you'll enjoy the result. Reviews are my lifeline right now.

* * *

LITHIUM

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Quidditch is the only thing that can sidetrack Harry from his interactions with Tom. Oliver Wood is in his last year as Gryffindor Captain and is fiercely determined to bring home the Quidditch Cup for his House. With the fresh and stormy start of October, they begin their training sessions, three evenings a week. Not even the rain, wind and mud can tarnish Harry's vision of finally winning that large, silver trophy, though he isn't as crazy about it as his Captain.

Wood's tenacity is mostly inspiring, but also somewhat frightening at times; the pressure on Harry's shoulders increases tremendously, considering that it is the Seeker who often seals the victory for their team. As much as he wants it, the possibility of failure is also very real, and not a pleasant thing to be thinking about when you're lying in your bed at night, trying to catch some sleep.

It certainly doesn't help that Ron and Hermione are too busy arguing over Crookshanks and Scabbers to offer any emotional support. Harry doesn't think Crookshanks is evil necessarily, but the cat does seem to have it out for Scabbers. He probably just _likes _chasing rats, or something. Whichever the case, Ron screaming bloody murder and Hermione shrieking injustice every time it happens is starting to get a bit old.

Even with all of this bearing down on him, Quidditch as well as his nightly conversations and practising with Tom offer plenty of enjoyment and comfort. Though, much like Quidditch itself, the private lessons are starting to burden him in some ways.

He wants to do well, and he's a very quick learner, but Tom always has _something _to remark, something that can be touched up no matter how hard Harry tries. It is during these lessons that Harry discovers the strain of having a perfectionist with the highest standard as a teacher, even if his methods are patient and helpful as opposed to Snape's vindictive scolding and mockery.

It's not necessarily a bad thing, even if it does add a little extra stress to Harry's daily life. He really wants to impress Tom, or make him proud, but nothing ever seems to be good enough. Tom very rarely gives out any praise, and maybe that's a part of his tactic, because it pushes Harry into trying even harder. Sometimes the results are terrible (see: The Incinerated Sleeve Incident) and sometimes, Harry masters a charm or a curse beautifully.

"_Expulso_!"

The cardboard box filled with discarded crumples of parchment and other such papers explodes and scatters its contents all over the dorm. Seamus curses as a piece of cardboard hits his head, though Ron, Dean and Neville are impressed.

Granted, the crude drawing of Snape's face on the front of the box helped a lot, but Harry still managed to get the spell right on the first try! That's a new personal record.

Glimpsing down at the diary hidden as always within a larger book, to his disappointment he sees no praise. _"You seem to have an affinity for such offensive curses, more so than the defensive charms."_

"Nice one, Harry! Where d'you learn it?" Ron inquires, delivering the praise he expected from his teacher and briefly distracting him.

"Just a book." Technically he isn't lying.

When he successfully undoes the mess he's made with a nifty clean-up spell learned from his knowledgeable friend, the interest in where he keeps getting these new spells and charms from increases, and he has to lie about something he forgot in the common room to avoid any more attention, taking with him his quill and his ink.

Downstairs, where it is empty aside for a few senior year students sitting at a table, Harry finds a nice spot in an armchair near the window, listening to the pitter-patter of the raindrops against the glass as he sits down. He opens up the large Potions textbook and the hidden diary within it, putting his ink bottle on the windowsill and dipping the tip of his quill into it.

_"You know, if I could at least tell Ron about you—"_

Tom interrupts him curtly. _"We've already talked about this."_

He sighs and knows it's pointless to try to argue. Lately he's been getting more and more uncomfortable with keeping such a large secret from his two best friends, and all the lying he has to do to Ron especially is starting to make him feel like a fraud. Ron thinks that he's some sort of prodigy duellist at this point, while the truth is that Harry just has an excellent teacher.

Still, no matter what he says, Tom won't budge. He is adamant on keeping his existence private between the two of them, even as he grows stronger every day. The shadow Harry saw during that DADA class on boggarts was Tom, after all. He somehow pulled Harry out of the nightmarish state the Dementor-boggart put him in, using his own magic to do away with its effects. A more direct application of the Patronus charm, Tom called it—a technique he improvised on the spot. Harry is convinced he will never be as great a wizard as Tom, but he'll be damned if he doesn't try.

_"I know, but we can't keep it a secret forever."_

_"I'll decide when it's time, which it isn't _yet. _Patience, Harry." _The whispers (although most of the time it sounds more like far-off echoes) have become a regularity now. Harry is used to hearing the faint tones of Tom's voice speaking to him through the pages, though no one else seems to hear it. _"You have been making good progress with curses, more so than with any other charms."_

It isn't exactly a compliment per se, but Harry is still happy to get it. _"Yeah, curses are pretty easy."_

_"Would you like to learn a few others? I think it's about time I introduced you to the more powerful side of magic."_

_"Of course, anything you've got!"_

_"Very well. The Reductor curse is similar to the Expulso curse, so perhaps we should continue with that. A variation of the Reductor curse, which is mainly used for objects or obstacles, is the Disintegration curse, which is more often used against other people."_

Disintegration curse? If it is as nasty a curse as it sounds, Harry isn't sure if he wants to learn it. Tom quickly senses his reluctance.

_"You understand you're only learning these curses to use on your enemies, Voldemort and his followers? They are defences just as much as they are weapons. You need to stop being so squeamish about using them if you wish to survive; in a real duel against the Dark Lord there will be no such thing as mercy or hesitation.__"_

Harry frowns deeply and sinks back into his armchair, feeling much like a child that has been scolded by his parent. What Tom is saying rings true, but there is no imminent threat of Voldemort, is there? And it's not as if _he_ is expected to defeat Voldemort personally—there are plenty of other wizards and witches infinitely more skilled than he is that would do much better in battle than Harry. Like some of his teachers at Hogwarts, like professional Aurors, like Dumbledore, like—

"_Tom, how long until you're free of the diary?"_

There's quite a long pause, until Harry notices a dark blur from his peripheral vision and looks up to the armchair opposite to his. There's that shadow again. Tom's shadow. It's colourless, and blurry, but Harry can see the outlines of his frame clear enough. The shadow lingers for a while, leans over and nonchalantly traces a symbol on the fogged up glass. First a triangle, then a circle within it, and finally a line through the middle.

The blur fades and no one else in the common room seems to have noticed. Harry stares at the symbol in wonder, less interested in what it means and more taken by the fact that Tom can do that much already. Thinking it is just some random scribble, he doesn't ask about it.

_"No longer than a few months at most." _Tom says, and Harry feels a portion of stress wash away instantly.

This exciting prospect is not the only good news Harry receives that week, however. The next day, when he, Ron and Hermione return to start on their homework in the common room (Harry still has to start on his Ancient Runes essay, _The Fifty Different Symbols For Death_, which is due in two days) they see something very interesting posted on the bulletin board.

It is a notice for the first Hogsmeade weekend at the end of October. Harry has to dig out an old contract of his uncle's and shows off his duplication spell to his friends. Vernon's handwriting is copied perfectly onto the Hogsmeade permission slip, prompting several of his peers to demand he teach them as well, Ron remarking it could be used to copy homework much more easily.

Naturally Hermione does not approve of any of it. "Harry, if Black—"

"Don't even start, Hermione." Ron groans, dropping down onto a chair as Harry rips up the bit of paper he stole from Vernon's trash bin, destroying the evidence of his fraud. "I don't think Black is crazy enough to attack Harry in the middle of Hogsmeade."

"He escaped Azkaban, I'm sure if we're not careful he could easily find an opportunity to strike." Hermione bites back with a deep frown, pressing her lips together tightly.

"Oh come off it, he can't be the only third year left behind when—"

"For Merlin's sake, get your priorities straight, Ronald! Would you rather have him dead or alone and alive?!"

"You're exaggerating! Besides, if Harry wants to go, then he can go! What, are you going to keep him prisoner in Hogwarts?"

"I'm sitting right here, you know." Harry finally interrupts the two, a bit annoyed they're debating over him without asking for his own opinion. He's starting to think this is less about him and more about the two of them arguing for the sake of it.

Ron mutters an apology and Hermione looks guilty, pouting slightly. Harry smiles. At least they care, in their own way.

* * *

Regardless of Hermione's concerns, Harry hands in his permission form to Professor McGonagall the next day when she reminds them at the end of her Transfiguration class. He's a bit nervous about it at first, but she merely nods, even if she looks like she wants to strongly advise him against going to Hogsmeade.

The village itself is a delight, so much so that Harry's feet are hurting after that first weekend of running all around the village. Honeydukes has the most delicious sweets Harry has ever tasted, Zonko's Joke Shop is like a festival condensed into one small building, the Three Broomsticks is filled with wizards, witches and even an ogre from all walks of life, the Shrieking Shack is invitingly eerie and the perfect haunted house, and even the post office is its own wonder with its two hundred colour-coded owls.

(He never receives the Marauder's Map from the Weasley twins.)

To top off his spectacular outing to Hogsmeade, when he and his two friends return to Hogwarts they are welcomed by a most delightful Halloween Feast. Harry can't remember a time where he has felt happier; everything that day is absolutely perfect up to the most minute details.

He thinks nothing can go possibly wrong, and then they climb up to Gryffindor Tower.

It only takes a small crowd of students, the portrait of the Fat Lady being found attacked and scandalized, and Percy yelling for the Headmaster to cram the entire student body into the Great Hall as the rest of Hogwarts is searched thoroughly for none other than Sirius Black.

Harry does not know the man personally, and while he knows that he is an enemy, he is seriously starting to grow a personal hatred for the escaped convict that somehow constantly manages to ruin things for him this year.

The Fat Lady is for the moment replaced by Sir Cadogan—who is, by all accounts, a complete lunatic who changes the password at least twice a day and otherwise challenges the students to random duels atop his fat, grey pony.

Sir Cadogan, however, is the least of Harry's worries. He is now being closely watched. Teachers find excuses to walk along corridors with him, and Percy Weasley (acting, Harry suspects, on his mother's orders) is tailing him everywhere like an extremely pompous guard dog. To cap it all, Professor McGonagall summons Harry into her office, with such a sombre expression on her face Harry thinks someone must have died.

"There's no point hiding it from you any longer, Potter," she says in a very serious voice. "I know this will come as a shock to you, but Sirius Black—"

"I know he's after me," Harry says wearily. "I heard Ron's dad telling his mum. Mr. Weasley works for the Ministry of Magic."

Professor McGonagall seems very taken aback. She stares at Harry for a moment or two, then says, "I see! Well, in that case, you'll understand why I don't think it's a good idea for you to be practising Quidditch in the evenings. Out on the field with only Your team members, it's very exposed, Potter—"

"We've got our first match on Saturday!" Harry exclaims, outraged. "I've got to train, Professor!"

Professor McGonagall considers him intently. Harry knows she's deeply interested in the Gryffindor team's prospects; it was she, after all, who suggested him as Seeker in the first Place. He waits, holding his breath.

"Hmm..." Professor McGonagall stands up and stares out of the window at the Quidditch field, just visible through the rain. "Well... goodness knows, I'd like to see us win the Cup at last... but all the same, I'd be happier if a teacher were present. I'll ask Madam Hooch to oversee your training sessions."

It is a compromise of sorts, and later that week, Harry finds himself in yet another situation that calls for a compromise—between a long held grudge and the new promise he made to himself to be rid of his prejudice towards Slytherins.

When he goes down for breakfast with Ron and Hermione one morning, Near Headless Nick warns them that Peeves, the local poltergeist, is playing a nasty little prank on anyone that uses the West-wing stairs which is the shortest way to the Great Hall for both the Gryffindors and the Ravenclaws. Apparently he's throwing around Slime Grenades, which are more innocent than they sound as they only cover you with green, red or blue slime. The nasty part of that is that's is irremovable for three days straight.

Most of the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws are thankfully saved because of the warnings from both Nick and portraits nearby, though any other students that need to get to the upper floors using those stairs are in for a mean surprise.

Harry is walking with Hermione towards their Ancient Runes class that is located on the West-wing that afternoon when they remember Peeves is terrorizing the stairs that lead up to the fourth floor and decide to use another route.

It is that moment that Draco Malfoy, oblivious of Peeves' antics, decides to round the corner and walk towards the steps. Had he not been alone, Harry might have even let him walk, but he is by himself and looks more vulnerable; Harry takes pity on him.

"Malfoy!" he calls from across the hallway, making the wealthy heir stop in his tracks and slowly look over his shoulder, wary at hearing Harry's voice. "I wouldn't take those stairs."

He doesn't stick around long enough to see if Malfoy takes his advice or not, but when he sees him walking into the classroom a few minutes later looking unharmed, glancing at Harry's table and nodding stiffly in acknowledgement, Harry can only assume he heeded his warning.

Hermione leans over and whispers, "I'm proud of you."

* * *

Something very strange happens a day before his match against Slytherin. Professor Lupin is absent, substituted by Professor Snape instead, who is not only the most unwelcome surprise Harry has had in a long time, but also skips ahead all the way to werewolves when they _should _be starting with hinkypunks instead.

Harry doesn't think much of it other than that Snape is being a right git as he always is, but when he mentions it to Tom later that evening in passing when he's lying in his bed, he gets an unexpected response.

_"Werewolves? Most intriguing." _

_"What?"_

_"Tell me, Harry, do you know if there's a full moon tonight?" _Harry is a bit confused, and answers that he doesn't know, but one look out the window tells him that it is indeed a full moon. When he says as much to Tom, he appears a bit amused. _"I suppose I should have expected nothing less from Dumbledore."_

Before Harry can ask him what in the world he's going on about, Ron walks into the dorm in a rather foul mood because of Snape giving him detention (he defended Hermione when the cruel Potions Master called her "an insufferable know-it-all). Harry has to put aside the diary for a while to whole-heartedly agree with Ron's anti-Snape tirade. Once the boy has blown off his steam, Harry flips the diary open again and Tom changes the subject.

_"Your Quidditch match against Slytherin is tomorrow, is it not?"_

_"Yeah, I don't think I'll be able to sleep much tonight."_

_"I suppose I'll excuse your lack of practising curses for today, though this is somewhat of a bother. I was going to introduce you to some quite infamous ones."_

Harry's innate curiosity is piqued immediately. _"What infamous ones?"_

_"The Unforgivable Curses. They are still above your skill level as of yet, but theory can never hurt."_

He mouths it to himself quietly. Unforgivable Curses. That sounds even nastier than the Disintegration curse Tom insisted he should practice, prompting Harry to end up becoming the best insect murderer in Hogwarts.

He doesn't much like using the spells, and even Ron is starting to question if he should really be practising it after witnessing him blow a harmless fly into several pieces like the shattered shards of a window. Imagining an actual person instead of a fly is enough to elicit revulsion from Harry, but it's not like he's going to use these every day. It's for his own defence; if he uses it to blow up some insane serial killing Voldemort-follower, there'd be no one who would complain, right? They'd call him a hero, most likely.

So maybe magic really is just that, _magic_. It has as many morals as a gun or a knife does. There's no reason to condemn entire branches of it, is there? There are still plenty of spells Harry is unlikely to use (The Entrails-Exploding spell sounds disgusting and unnecessarily cruel) but some of them he's starting to think aren't as bad as he first thought, as long as he uses them for a good reason.

Tom continues to tell him about the Unforgivable Curses, all most certainly illegal and none that Harry thinks he'll use. The Imperius curse sounds like the least harmful, though he understands that it can be used to coerce people into doing terrible things against their will. It is still a definite step up from the Cruciatus curse, and the big one: the Killing curse. _  
_

_"I think it a quite merciful one." _Tom remarks off-handedly. _"The victim feels no pain. their heart and brain instantly shuts down. There are dozens of curses that will kill you much more painfully, leaving you to wait out an agonizing, slow death. The Killing curse hits much like a lightning strike." _

_"Have you used it before?" _Harry asks spontaneously, feeling disturbed to the core by the nonchalant way Tom refers to it, as if they were talking about stomping on ants. Human lives, no matter how "mercifully" they are taken, can never be regained. Murder is a horrible thing, and Harry hopes sincerely he'll never find himself in the situation where it is necessary.

_"No." _Tom answers after the slightest pause, and Harry has no reason to doubt him.

* * *

The wind is so strong that the Gryffindor team staggers sideways as they walk out onto the field. If the crowd is cheering, they can't hear it over the fresh rolls of thunder. Rain is splattering over Harry's glasses, making everything a blur. How on earth is he going to see the Snitch in this?

The Slytherins approach from the opposite side of the field, wearing their standard green robes. The Captains walk up to each other and shake hands rougher than is necessary. Harry sees Madam Hooch's mouth form the words, "Mount your brooms."

He pulls his right foot out of the mud with a squelch and swings it over his Nimbus Two Thousand. Madam Hooch puts her whistle to her lips and gives it a blast that sounds shrill and distant. They're off.

Harry's initial fear is proven right; he can barely see anything through what appears to be a storm morphing into a hurricane, making it harder and harder to keep his broom straight. He starts losing track of time, shivering and soaked to the bone. Sometimes he catches glimpses of Malfoy's blond head, who doesn't seem to be doing any better than he is.

When Wood calls for a time-out Harry discovers they're about fifty points up, but it is meaningless if he can't catch the Snitch, and with his glasses it isn't going to work. Of course Hermione is there to save the day; she charms his glasses to repel water (reminding him of what the diary once did) and solves the problem.

Up in the air again, still wet and freezing but at least having his vision back, Harry searches for the Snitch once more with renewed determination. The thunder increases, and so does the lightning. During one such flashes, while looking around for a golden glimmering, Harry sees something that distracts him completely: the silhouette of a large black dog, motionless in the topmost, empty row of seats.

The flash is over and the dog is gone faster than Harry can blink, making him wonder if there was a dog at all.

"HARRY! BEHIND YOU!" comes Wood's anguished yell from the goalposts, making Harry turn his broom around with a sharp turn and curse loudly when he sees Malfoy diving for the Snitch.

He throws himself flat on the broom-handle and with a jolt of panic sets in an immediate chase.

But something odd is happening. An eerie silence is falling across the stadium. The wind, though as strong as ever, forgets to roar. It is as though someone turned off the sound, as though Harry has gone suddenly deaf—what is going on?

And then a horribly familiar wave of cold sweeps over him, inside him, just as he becomes aware of something moving on the field below, thorugh the shades of grey and black. Before he has time to think, Harry takes his eyes off the Snitch and looks down.

At least a hundred Dementors, their hidden faces pointing up at him, are floating beneath him, their cloaks soundlessly fluttering in the storm. It's as though freezing water is rising in his chest, cutting at his insides. He hears it again.

Lily Potter's last words.

_"Have mercy..."_

He falls down.

* * *

He could have just let the idiot fall to his death. He has the Snitch; what does he care what happens to Potter? He just won the game for Slytherin! He ought to fly down and celebrate with his team mates, gloat about his victory, and if he's lucky Potter will have broken a bone or two in the aftermath.

But as much as Draco wants to be the smart Slytherin he's always been, watching Potter faint and fall right off his broom just seems _too _pathetic for words. This is supposed to be his rival; what does it say about Draco if his nemesis faints like a girl and falls to his death in front of the entire school? Then there is also the fact that Potter, for whatever reason, saved him from walking right into that horrid prank Peeves had been playing on the students a few weeks ago.

He thought about that often, trying to figure out what possible motives Potter could have had in saving him from such humiliation. He would have thought it was exactly the kind of thing Potter would love to see him get tangled in, covered in bright yellow slime like Goyle for three whole days. Yet he'd warned him and spared him a most terrible three days.

Draco Malfoy is a Slytherin, and Slytherins are known for their self-preservation. What they're less known for, but what is equally true, is that they'll always return a favour.

And so, against all his better judgement and to _everyone's _shock, Draco dives for Potter with the Snitch clutched in his hand, grabs Harry's arm with his other hand, and it is only when he sees the crowd of Dementors down below and a sudden cold ripples through his lungs that he realizes that that old saying really _is_ true.

A good deed never goes unpunished.


	6. ACT I END

**A/N: **The amount of reviews and favourites and follows have really helped in getting this chapter out on time. All of you are absolutely wonderful, especially the ones who took some time to submit a review and brighten my day! There's quite a bit of progress in this one, and the next chapter will pretty much spell the end of Harry's third year. This chapter has a scene that is one of my absolute favourites of what I've written so far; let's see if you can find out which one it is, and feel free to point out your own favourite scene as well. Please enjoy, and if you'd be so kind enough to drop a review, that would mean the world to me!

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LITHIUM

**CHAPTER SIX**

The shattered remnants of wood from his Nimbus Two Thousand lies on his lap as he is told that his saviour from his greatest tormentors is a boy who claims his father's accomplishments as his own. Harry couldn't be more frustrated.

As if to add to his terrible situation, Madam Pomfrey is resolute on keeping Harry in the hospital wing for the rest of the weekend. He mourns his best friend, keeping the broken pieces of wood on his nightstand. He has a stream of visitors that are all intent on cheering him up, from Hagrid sending him flowers that look like yellow cabbages to Ginny Weasley's poorly thought-out present of a get-well card that sings shrilly unless Harry keeps it shut under his fruit bowl.

The fact of the matter is that nothing can cheer him up from the sick feeling of humiliation—this time in front of the entire school, where he's saved by _Malfoy_. The experience also does not do any favours to his sleep; whenever he dozes off, he sinks into dreams full of clammy, rotted hands and petrified pleading, jerking awake to dwell again on his mother's voice. Not having the diary here with him only makes it worse; at least if Tom was present he would have something to distract himself with.

It is a relief to return to the noise and bustle of the main school on Monday, where he's forced to think about other things. Slytherin is of course rather ecstatic at its victory over Gryffindor, but oddly enough, Malfoy does not partake in the celebrations. While he doesn't tell his fellows off for imitating Harry falling off his broom, he does not join in either, steering clear from the taunting altogether. Harry knows he should go thank him, but he can never find an opportunity; Malfoy is always surrounded by people.

"If Snape's teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts again, I'm skiving off," Ron says moodily as they head toward Lupin's classroom after lunch. "Check who's in there, Hermione."

Hermione peers warily around the classroom door for a moment, before turning to them with a smile. "It's okay!"

Professor Lupin is back at work. It certainly looks as though he has been ill. His old robes are hanging more loosely on him and there are dark shadows beneath his eyes; nevertheless, he smiles at the class as they take their seats, and they burst at once into an explosion of complaints about Snape's behaviour while Lupin was ill.

The man addresses their concerns with patience, and assures them that they _won't _have to write two rolls of parchment worth on a subject they barely even studied. After class he does call Harry to him, remarking he heard about the match, and inquires to his broom, to which Harry responds it's pretty much unsalvageable.

The talk inevitably devolves into Dementors, and Harry instantly pours out his insecurities regarding the creatures. Why him? Why is he the only one so affected by them? Is he just weak?

The Professor corrects him at once. "The Dementors affect you worse than the others because there are horrors in your past that the others don't have." A ray of wintry sunlight falls across the classroom, illuminating Lupin's grey hairs and the lines on his young face. Harry suddenly remembers that the night he lost his parents, Professor Lupin lost two of his best friends.

Their conversation ends after he brings up Sirius Black—the Professor seems to have a particular aversion to discussing it. Harry figures it probably brings back bad memories, and drops it for the moment.

When his lessons end for the day Harry almost bolts up to Gryffindor Tower, mumbling some excuse about having forgotten something in his dorms to Ron and Hermione.

To his relief his dorms are only inhabited by Seamus, who is taking a nap, and so he is free to talk to Tom in private. His handwriting is less than proper when he greets his friend, who does not greet him back and instead makes an immediate proposal.

"_I believe it is about time I taught you the Patronus charm."_

Apparently Tom heard all about the incident during the match from the other boys in the dorm talking about it frequently over the weekend, and is of the opinion that the Dementors now take priority over the looming threat of Sirius Black, that still seems rather far away.

What with the promise of anti-Dementor lessons, the thought that he might never have to hear his mother's death again and Ravenclaw flattening Slytherin in their Quidditch match at the end of November, Harry's mood takes a definite upturn. Gryffindor is not out of the running after all, although they can't afford to lose another match.

As such, Wood becomes repossessed of his manic energy, and works his team as hard as ever in the chilly haze of rain that persists into December.

Harry sees no hint of a Dementor within the grounds. Dumbledore's anger, spoken of far and wide throughout the school, keeps them at their stations at the entrances.

Harry wonders if Dementors can feel fear as well.

* * *

Hogsmeade looks like a Christmas card near the end of the month and Ron and Hermione both decide to stay at Hogwarts during the holidays. Ron claims it is because he won't be able to stand being around Percy and Hermione says she's staying to study more in the library, but it's easy to see through their little white lies. They're both staying to keep him company, and Harry couldn't be more relieved and grateful.

Still, even with his two best friends to keep him company, there is little that can be done to keep Harry from disappearing for an hour or two for a lesson with Tom.

The first lesson is little more than theory. Tom explains the basics of the spell, makes some footnotes here and there, and remarks on the subjectivity of the crux of its power when Harry asks if even the most awful people in the world could cast a Patronus.

"_That is the beauty of it," _Tom replies with a tone of humour. _"Even the most deranged mass murderer, if properly trained, would be able to cast a Patronus as long as he or she thinks of something that makes them happy. It might even be their first murder, which would seem gruesome to you, but the spell depends entirely on one's own psyche." _

Harry isn't sure how anyone could think of their first murder as being their happiest moment (or why Tom finds this so delightful), but that's probably why he's Harry Potter and not aforementioned deranged mass murderer.

"What if you've barely known a happy moment?" he asks out of curiosity. Writing is no longer necessary; Tom can hear him just fine. Harry only writes to him when others are present nowadays. "If you've had a terrible life?"

"_Then the few happy moments you've had will stand out even more. Someone with a terrible life will be more affected by the Dementors, but they also tend to be more skilled with the Patronus charm. Someone with a happy life, however, will be less affected by Dementors, and might not even need the Patronus charm at all." _

It is easy to follow in theory, but in practice, Harry discovers, it's another thing entirely. His first time attempting to cast a Patronus in his dorms (during the second lesson) is when he thinks of the first time he learned to fly; it is insufficient, by a long shot. When he tries to perform the spell nothing but a waft of silver smoke blows out of the tip of his wand.

He would've been excited at the immediate progress as the spell is an incredibly difficult one to master, but he knows Tom is not at all impressed. When Harry tells him of the memory he used, Tom disapproves.

"_You'll need something far stronger than that, Harry. Flying must have been wonderful—once you got over your fear of falling to your death, that is. Do you understand? The memory or thought must be _pure _happiness. No other feeling can interfere."_

After several more tries with barely anything achieved, Harry grows frustrated as Tom once again shoots down his memory (this time of him going down to Hogsmeade with his friends), calling it too weak.

"What do _you _think about when casting a Patronus, then?" he says when his aggravation has reached its boiling point, scowling down at the diary.

"The first time I saw Hogwarts." a voice replies on his left.

Harry turns around to see a boy sitting on the edge of his bed, staring outside to the Great Lake. The surprise delays his understanding, but once it hits, it hits like a lightning strike.

Tom is no longer a vague shade, no longer a blur of colour and faint shape. His features are still a bit faded, as if Harry is looking at him through a fogged up window, but he is recognizable. On first glance anyone would think he's just another person, sitting there by himself.

Tom shifts his head to look at him and Harry is still wide-eyed, dumbstruck by his sudden appearance.

"You're… are you…"

"Free?" The clarity of his suave voice is odd, different from the distant echoes he'd grown used to. Tom's face has sharp, perfectly symmetrical features, his eyes not a dark grey as Harry thought from the diary's memories, but rather a dark shade of blue. "No, not yet. I cannot maintain this form for longer than a few minutes."

His expression is passive, and as he stands up Harry realizes how short he is in comparison, the top of his head barely reaching Tom's shoulders. With his lean frame, his whole poise and aesthetic screams of something truly aristocratic. He has a definite Slytherin flair about him, but not in the way of Malfoy's childish arrogance. It is sheer charisma.

"I saw myself forced to materialize once I realized how terrible your form is." He moves towards him with a kind of grace that would've made Harry think he's floating had he not seen his feet moving, had he not heard the sharp tap of his heels on the floorboards. Tom's eyes scrutinize Harry's stance. He walks a slow circle around him before he says(/commands), "Try again."

Trying again is easier said than done when someone is watching your every move.

"_Expecto Patronum_," Harry pronounces with a motion of his wand, thinking faintly of when he bought Hedwig. The result is the same, and he lets out an irritated sigh. Tom's reaction is more calculated.

"There is no confidence in your posture, no will behind your words." he notes casually, coming to stand behind the young boy. Long, spindly fingers wrap around his wrist and push it up until his arm is outstretched right in front of him. Tom's hands feel colder than what is normal, not yet quite alive. They move to his slouched shoulders and pull them back until they're straight, and linger there. There's no warmth in his unnaturally ivory skin, no healthy red to his cheeks or his lips probably due to the absence of blood (does he have ink in his veins instead?), but Harry can still feel the pressure of his palms.

"Let me tell you a secret." Tom says, his breath brushing over Harry's hair and his voice soft enough to be a hiss but not quite that intense. "The mind can be tricked into believing anything, as long as the conviction is strong enough. All a skilled wizard really needs for this spell is an emulation of happiness. Repeat it enough times, and even a lie becomes the truth."

"So I just need to pretend to feel happy?"

"Pretence isn't enough, not for someone as inexperienced as you. For me, the mere word 'happiness' is enough to conjure a Patronus. For you, you'll need something more concrete. But eventually, yes, all you need to do is pretend."

One must be a magnificent liar indeed, to deceive his own mind.

Harry misses this underlying warning, and thinks Tom must just be that powerful. He stares ahead of himself, takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and searches for his happiest moment.

In his first year, when he looked into the mirror of Erised and saw his parents looking back. That sensation of warmth that no fire and no stream of sunlight can ever compare to, of awe and hope and excitement, of stars at the brightest peak of their fall, right before they burst and disappear into the endless, of fireworks that glitter and spark at their highest point, right before they die and are forgotten.

He has to catch that feeling at that exact moment, trap it and relive it, make himself _believe _in it.

Opening his eyes, still envisioning his parents smiling at him, he speaks the spell. "_Expecto Patronum!"_

Something shoots out his wand, brightens the room, feeling like a warm blanket during the coldest night. Harry can't make out a specific shape, and can only see that it's bigger than him, floating there as if trying to decide which shape to take. It disappears the very next second.

"I did it!" A smile lights up his face, and disappears a moment later when the door opens, before he's had the opportunity to face his teacher and share the victory.

"Did what, mate?" Ron asks, standing in the doorway with a confused look on his face. Harry blinks, gazing at Ron as his brain takes a while to register the sudden interruption, before he starts looking around the room.

Tom is gone.

* * *

On Christmas morning, Harry is awoken by a pillow to the face, courtesy of Ron.

"Oy! Presents!"

Ron semi-complains about the maroon sweater Mrs. Weasley sent him, Harry receiving his in scarlet, with a lion emblazoned on it, as well as a dozen home-baked mince pies, some Christmas cake, and a box of nut brittle. It is a long, thin package lying underneath everything else that really catches his attention, however.

The shape of the package alone is enough to make his heartbeat drum thunderously against his ribs, and he rips it apart immediately, until what's lying on his lap is the most beautiful broom he's ever seen.

It is the Firebolt, the dream that had been taunting him that summer from behind the glass of a shop in Diagon Alley. Both Ron and Harry are equal amounts dumbstruck and excited, but to their surprise, there is no note identifying the generous sender. They speculate immediately as to who it could've been, Ron first suspecting Dumbledore, then moving onto Lupin.

It is then that Hermione walks in, and instead of sharing in their elation when seeing the Firebolt, she looks disconcerted. Perhaps it is Tom's influence, his lessons having given him a hand in learning the skill of critical thinking, but Harry can tell what she's thinking of. What if the broom comes from someone less good-natured than Ron suggested?

"Harry, who sent you that?"

He's quiet for a moment, before promptly lying, "Professor Lupin."

It is just a little white lie. He knows that if he admits the broom has no card with it, notifying him who sent it, Hermione will most definitely tell a teacher who'll probably confiscate the thing, and that's the _last _thing he wants. Maybe it's a bit reckless of him, but he can just ask Tom to look it over for him later—the thought of that option being now available to him almost makes him smile.

Hermione looks sceptical of his claim and Harry has to covertly kick Ron in the shins to stop him from giving the lie away, but she makes no fuss about it and instead moves on to admiring the craftsmanship. Even if she isn't that interested in Quidditch, the skill in making the magical object intrigues her greatly.

When Ron then pleads with Harry to have a go on the marvellous broom, Crookshanks (whom Hermione brought in despite Ron's protests) springs from Seamus' bed onto Ron's chest.

"GET — HIM — OUT — OF — HERE!" Ron bellows as Crookshanks's claws rip his pyjamas and Scabbers attempts a wild escape over his shoulder. Ron seizes Scabbers by the tail and aims a misjudged kick at Crookshanks that hits the trunk at the end of Harry's bed, knocking it over and causing Ron to hop up and down, howling with pain.

Crookshanks's fur suddenly stands on end. A shrill, tinny, whistling fills the room. The Pocket Sneakoscope that Ron gave him as a birthday present last summer has become dislodged from Uncle Vernon's old socks and is whirling and gleaming on the floor.

"I forgot about that!" Harry says, bending down and picking up the Sneakoscope. "I never wear those socks if I can help it."

Aside from Ron and Hermione not speaking to each other after that incident, the rest of Christmas day passes pleasantly. Harry tries out his broom that afternoon anyway and nothing at all happens; it flies like a well-oiled machine, smooth to the touch and easy to control coupled with its excellent speed. There's also a dinner with the remaining school staff that Dumbledore somehow prevents from being awkward with his merry mannerisms.

When lying in his bed that night, Ron lounging on his own four-poster and flipping through a Quidditch magazine, he writes to Tom to talk about the day's events, and gets a peculiar response in return. Tom seems more interested in the Sneakoscope whistling than Harry acquiring the Firebolt.

"_Did you not find it odd at all?"_

Harry nearly knocks his inkpot over in his haste to reply, having no idea why he should find it odd. _"It's probably broken. It's been whistling all the time ever since school started." _

"_Are you sure it's malfunctioning?" _

"_What else could it be? I guess if it's not broken it was probably whistling because of Crookshanks." _

"_That's impossible, Harry. Sneakoscopes hardly work on animals, as they are merely following their instinct—an animal cannot be untrustworthy in the same way humans can."_

This is a large point of confusion for Harry, and also offence. _"So either Ron or Hermione is untrustworthy?" _

"_I cannot say." _

The odd conversation ends there as Ron demands his attention, reading up some trivia about the Firebolt which he found inside the magazine. Harry decides to forget about the Sneakoscope, maintaining it has to be broken, even though his gut-feeling screams at him that _something _isn't right here.

Ron and Hermione can't be scheming against him, and since Tom ruled out Crookshanks, who else is left?

* * *

Everyone is mighty impressed by Harry's Firebolt when the holidays end, and Wood is ecstatic with the addition to their team, prompting him to train them even _harder_. With the newly acquired broom Gryffindor finally has a real chance for the Cup. It's enough to put Harry in a mood where he's freshly determined to continue his good work in his classes—he hasn't had his homework late nor an essay over deadline in months, and all his teachers (with the exception of Snape) are very satisfied with his progress.

Some teachers, though, are looking a bit worse for wear than others. Professor Lupin doesn't look as healthy as he did at the start of the year.

"Still looks ill, doesn't he?" Ron remarks as they walk down the corridor, heading to dinner. "What d'you reckon's the matter with him?"

There's a loud and impatient "tuh" from behind them. It's Hermione, who's sitting at the feet of a suit of armour, repacking her bag, which is so full of books that it will barely close.

"And what are you tutting at us for?" Ron says irritably.

"Nothing," Hermione responds in a lofty voice, heaving her bag back over her shoulder.

"Yes, you were," Ron gripes, glaring at her. "I said I wonder what's wrong with Lupin, and you—"

"Well, isn't it obvious?" Hermione sneers, with a look of maddening superiority.

Harry suppresses a smile, being the only one to find humour in this situation as his two friends act like an old married couple.

"If you don't want to tell us, then _don't_," Ron snaps, clearly fed up with Hermione's attitude.

"Fine," Hermione responds haughtily, and she marches off.

"She doesn't know," Ron mumbles, staring resentfully after Hermione, though it sounds more like he's trying to convince himself than inform Harry. "She's just trying to get us to talk to her again."

Harry doubts that sincerely.

When he asks Tom later that day in his empty dorm, watching him hold the loudly whistling Sneakoscope in his hand with a thoughtful look (Harry still isn't quite used to seeing him walk around like this, the sight making him pause every time), the answer he receives is rather astonishing.

"He's a werewolf." Tom states matter-of-factly, a stark contrast to Hermione's smug demeanour earlier that day as he doesn't even look up from the Sneakoscope, twisting it around between his fingers. "I think you may be right, Harry. It's probably broken." He hands the small object back with a disarming smile, and Harry numbly stuffs it back into Vernon's old socks.

"A _werewolf_? But… then all the times he disappeared… of course! It was always around full moon!" Harry wants to slap himself for not having noticed it before. Snape's lesson on werewolves—the git was probably hoping that someone would be clever enough to figure it out. Unfortunately for him, the only two people that did were a student rather fond of Lupin and a memory inside a diary.

It certainly doesn't change the way Harry feels towards him. He's a great teacher and the condition is one he can't even help. He's sure Lupin and Dumbledore have found a way to work around it.

With that being out of the way, they move on to Harry's Patronus lesson. He's slowly booking progress, though Tom points out that conjuring a Patronus will be much more difficult in front of a Dementor, advising him to mentally prepare himself.

"What's under a Dementor's hood, anyway?" Harry asks, having wondered it for quite a while as he watches his vaguely-shaped Patronus fade away.

"You wouldn't want to find out," Tom replies smoothly, reading through the latest edition of the_ Daily Prophet_, seated on the edge of Harry's bed. "A Dementor will only lower his hood when they prepare to finish off their victim."

It is then that Harry learns of the chilling workings of a Dementor's Kiss. Tom mentions nonchalantly that the Ministry has authorized the Dementors to use it upon capturing Sirius Black, having just read it in the newspaper. His soul will be sucked out of him.

"Personally I think it a rather pointless punishment," Tom says, turning a page as he continues to read. "There is no actual suffering in it. Once you become an empty shell, it won't matter to you if you have a soul or not, will it? You might as well execute the convict; there's hardly any difference aside from the most minimal functioning of their body."

Harry isn't sure what to feel about that. Now he thinks about it, the whole idea of Azkaban seems rather monstrous to him. Even if the prisoners held there have done terrible things (but who's to say they all have—what if there is an innocent person among them?) aren't they, as the good guys, supposed to be better than that? Weren't they even going to send Hagrid to Azkaban all those years ago, had it not been for Dumbledore? The thought of his half-giant friend stuck between all those Dementors makes Harry shudder.

When he tells Tom his thoughts on it, he's met with a loud laughter that somehow rings a bit… hollow to his ears. "Harry, please be realistic," he says in amusement, as if it's a _joke _to him. "Do you think it more likely that Azkaban was created for the sole purpose of housing criminals, or to keep extremely dangerous dark creatures well-fed and away from the general populace?"

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it slowly. "It's-it was made to feed the Dementors?"

"Of course it was. What better way to keep them satisfied than to allow them to leach off society's outcasts?"

"But what if there are innocent people in there? What if—"

Tom looks up from his newspaper for the first time, a slight frown on his face. "There are most definitely a few innocent people in there. Human judgement is not infallible; statistically it is highly unlikely that there wouldn't be some misjudgements during court cases."

Harry wasn't prepared for that. Ever since the wizarding community was introduced to him, he thought of it as this wonderful place where injustices were non-existent, at least in the Ministry of Magic's case. They were _wizards_, they were morally righteous, or supposed to be—in a way, Harry supposes he's been holding them to a higher moral standard than Muggles, forgetting all the while that both wizards and Muggles are a part of a grander whole. Humanity.

He cannot accept this. "They can't do that!" The outrage thunders from his voice through the dorms. "They can't just toss people away to be food for Dementors! We're supposed to be better than that!"

"And what else do you suggest the Ministry does to keep the Dementors at bay?" Tom responds evenly, unperturbed by Harry's righteous anger. "Let them roam around freely?"

"I don't know, but this isn't the right way." Harry maintains stubbornly. After being personally affected by the Dementors so heavily, the thought that an innocent person has to suffer through that for possibly years makes his stomach churn. "This isn't right at all."

"And I suppose you're going to find a solution, are you?"

"I will if I have to!" Harry retorts so vehemently he's almost surprised at how much he really means it.

Tom stares at him for a few seconds, the look in his eyes so intent that Harry is almost distracted from his indignation.

"What?" he asks, eyebrows furrowed deeply.

"I can't decide," Tom murmurs cryptically, seeming to be talking to himself more than Harry. "Is it immaturity, or strength?"

Before Harry can figure out what that's supposed to mean, Dean and Seamus walk in, Tom instantly vanishing from sight and dropping the newspaper on the edge of the bed, as if he'd never been there at all.

* * *

It seems that Crookshanks finally managed to eat Scabbers, and so it also seems that Ron and Hermione's friendship is forever finished. Harry personally is certain Ron will move on from it eventually, as it is hardly Hermione's fault that the cat listened to his natural instincts, but until then the two won't be on talking terms or even sitting-in-the-same-room terms anymore outside of classes.

Even Gryffindor's victory over Ravenclaw and the party afterwards isn't enough for the two of them to bury the hatchet. Harry isn't all that great of a mediator, in all honesty, so he isn't sure _how_ he can have the two of them be friends again. He'll just have to wait it out.

Then, of course, everything takes a turn for the worst. Ron wakes up screaming and apparently Sirius Black somehow made it into Gryffindor Tower after Neville had stupidly written down the password and then _lost _the note.

His lessons with Tom immediately revert back to curses, as he'd been making sufficient progress with his Patronus, and for the first time Harry feels a vague sense of danger though it is not nearly enough to frighten him.

All in all, a Hogsmeade weekend is all that can keep him in a semi-happy mood, deciding together with Ron (as Hermione is upset with Harry for pointing out all the evidence does indicate Crookshanks ate the rat) to go see the Shrieking Shack for a bit after stuffing their mouths with delicious sweets from Honeydukes.

On top of the slope that offers the view of the Shrieking Shack, however, they find three other students already present; none other than Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle. Ron is already scowling, but when Malfoy catches sight of him, instead of sneering as he used to, he merely looks away and towards Harry instead, who realizes this is the perfect opportunity to offer his thanks to Malfoy for not letting him fall to his death during that one Quidditch match.

He glances at Ron, who is eyeing him questioningly, before he moves ahead towards Malfoy. Crabbe and Goyle are on either side of the blond, attempting to look menacing, but Harry pays them no attention.

"Hey," he starts awkwardly, Malfoy eyeing him as if he's a terribly interesting though mildly irritating specimen of flubberworm. "I, er, never got to say thank you. For that one time."

Malfoy squints for a moment as if he's got no clue what Harry is blabbering about, until it seems to occur to him. "Ah. _That_." He makes a gesture with his hand, like he's brushing it aside. "I was just paying back my debt."

Now it's Harry's turn to be puzzled. "What debt?"

"You warned me about that prank Peeves was playing with the Slime Grenades."

"Oh," Harry has no doubt that he looks incredibly sheepish, but this is _weird_. Had you told him a year ago he'd be actually civil with Malfoy he would've called you a terrible liar, but it's actually happening, and he doesn't know what to think of it. It's much nicer than them trying to get on each other's nerves, in any case. "You're welcome?"

"A bit late for that, Potter." Malfoy responds glibly. "I don't owe you anything now, considering my debt is repaid."

"What, does that mean you're going back to being a prat?"

Malfoy's lips curl in the usual sneer for a moment. "Tempting, but I'll pass. I have better things to do." He motions to his two bodyguards, and the three of them turn their back on Harry (and Ron, who's been eyeing this all rather warily from a small distance). They've only taken a few steps when Harry stops Malfoy again by blurting out a sudden thought he doesn't think can hurt.

"You know," he starts, and Malfoy looks at him over his shoulder, annoyed at the interruption. "You, uh, you can be a pretty decent person, sometimes."

'_Great way to make an arse out of yourself, Harry.' _he thinks when he sees Malfoy's eyebrows arch in a mocking look, seeming a bit amused at the clumsy statement.

"How _kind _of you to notice." he derides, though there isn't that malevolence to it that there used to be when he taunted Harry in the past, and he looks away, continuing down the slope and disappearing from sight with his two companions.

Harry stands there for a moment longer, and Ron walks up to join him, the two enjoying a moment in silence until Ron turns to him and with a completely serious expression says, "If you ever become friends with Malfoy, I'm disowning you as my best mate."

Harry doesn't doubt it.


	7. Chapter Seven

**A/N: **So this story now officially has a 100 reviews and 10,000 hits, and to celebrate, a chapter of about 10,000 words (yes, quite lengthy, snacks are advised)! I am utterly floored, thank you guys so much! And now, for a change of pace. I should also advise you, in case there are any canon purists out there, that Tom pretty much destroys most of JKR's nonsense restrictions on the branch of Transfiguration, though it is only by virtue of him being a genius and not something any other wizard could easily attempt. Though I'm not sure why canon purists would read this story in the first place… anyhow, with this, we're at the end of Harry's third year, basically. Enjoy!

* * *

LITHIUM

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Living within the diary often feels like what Tom imagines living within a Pensieve would feel like. It is the simplest thing to lose sight of time when you are confined to your own existence in a sub-dimension of reality; a tiny pocket of space inhabited by his soul.

Tom Riddle is not the diary, but during his more lonesome periods the line between his consciousness and the yellowed pages of the timeless journal thins until the leather cover is his body and the black ink is his tongue. In spite of his own mind's hallucinations, where every rustle of the paper feels like the fluttering of his robes, Tom Riddle is but a memory with its own will, chained. A snippet from an old newspaper futilely rewriting its own articles, never to be read.

At the time of its conception, the creator of the diary never intended for the extraordinary Horcrux to free itself—that is an idea that occurred to Tom Riddle later, as he dwelt in the abyss of his own past and became restless as years dripped and vanished into an ocean of immeasurable time. It is either a testament to Lord Voldemort's inability for self-reflection, or Tom Riddle's boundless ambition; even this fragment of his soul refuses to be defined as a mere safeguard to death for its original, even if said original loses a Horcrux in the process.

Naturally, Tom does not mind that single loss as the gain is so much greater. If he, young and strong and capable, joins forces with his original, they would be nigh unstoppable. Lord Voldemort is already immortal, so that is one goal that has been accomplished. Next only remains to exterminate their enemies and erase every last trace of Muggles from the wizarding world. He operates under the assumption that Lord Voldemort will see the benefits of his joining him as well.

(Assumptions, he will learn in the future, are best left unmade.)

Even with all these plans laid out, however, the progress towards his freedom has meandered in a most unexpected yet fortuitous route. For Tom to regain his independence, another life _must _be sacrificed, but he could have never imagined that his victim would be none other than the infant that defeated his "alter ego" at the apex of his reign.

When he first saw those words, "_I am Harry Potter_", after all the inanities he was forced to endure from the Weasley girl, it felt as if Lady Luck herself owled him a Christmas present. His first victim will be the cause of his original's ruin; it can't be a more perfect revenge scenario.

And yet, things have been progressing… strangely. Ever since Tom coaxed Harry Potter into granting him access to his life's energy (much like he did with Ginny Weasley) the sixteen-plus-fifty year old memory certainly _felt _himself grow stronger every day, yet it had no effect on Potter whatsoever. It still doesn't. No weakening, no fatigue, no headaches, no opportune black-outs that allow him to take control of the boy's body, nothing. Absolutely nothing.

What's even more peculiar to Tom and what he has never quite moved on from is that moment in the beginning of their relationship, where he felt a connection with the boy before one was even established through blood magic. It cannot be kinship; Tom feels kinship with none as it implies equality, and no one can be equal to him. The sensation has more akin to a bond forced through magic, and yet he hasn't a clue what it could possibly be.

He still feels it now, an undercurrent of inexplicable recognition and familiarity. It is somewhat like a web of oddly connected strings tying them together in the most impossible ways, and it is vexing him endlessly that he doesn't know what is causing it. If the cause is known, then it can be solved. Treating the symptoms (blocking the sensations out) is temporary. Eventually it'll blow up in his face.

Nevertheless, things are moving according to schedule. In spite of the small aberrations here and there, the surge of power increases the more time ticks on. He's on a train that is gaining speed the further it travels, and he can see the station if he looks out the window. It won't be long until he has his own body and he can do away with the one black stain on his record; the green-eyed child.

If Harry Potter hadn't been his enemy, Tom knows he'd be practical enough to welcome him as a follower had such a chance ever existed. Even at the tender age of thirteen he has a great affinity for curses and offensive spell work in general; coupled with his natural reflexes, he would've become a fine wizard and a highly skilled duellist. With the right training, he would be a truly fearsome dark wizard. Recruitment would certainly be an option, had his death not been marked on a calendar (though not even Tom knows the exact date yet).

If nothing else, at least Potter has made for a much better conversational partner than the previous holder of his diary, whose insecure, pre-teen, superficial verbal vomit was often a strain on his patience. Potter's own naivety and general ignorance on the more formidable sides of magic has been irksome as well, but nothing he didn't expect from _The Boy Who Lived_, and nothing that can't be rectified.

In a way, Tom enjoys the process of "corrupting" his young mind, though that is the word only the ignorant would use seriously. The lack of education on the Dark Arts in Hogwarts has always been a big point of disappointment for him when he was a student there himself, but perhaps his expectations of Hogwarts were always too high. It is no surprise that Potter has no insight on the other side of the coin that is magic.

Still, for all his lack of development in multiple areas, there's something about the boy that Tom only caught a glimpse of when they conversed on the topic of Azkaban. There is a burning there, an unstoppable force of determination that Tom isn't sure Potter even realizes he possesses. It is the kind of tenacity that revolves around dangerous recklessness and lasting impulse.

Ordinarily Tom would not have been intrigued; people without impulse control are often the most predictable. Yet Potter's impulses, that lean towards the sort of idealistic and optimistic principles that have always been so foreign to Tom, are an unmeasurable factor. It arouses curiosity, but also alarm.

He must eliminate this threat as soon as possible. Naturally, teaching him all these curses would seem counter-productive, but in actuality it will give him full knowledge of Potter's skills, of his arsenal of spells. When the time comes, even if Potter fights back, it will all be futile. Tom will know all his tricks.

When Potter then comes to him once more on a windy February afternoon and they continue their lessons in curses, Tom thinks it is time to test the mettle of his destined enemy.

"You need to participate in a duel," he says, and is met with wide eyes. "You cannot practice these curses forever. There is no better way to learn than through experience."

Breathing in air still feels as dream-like as it did the first time he manifested. Oxygen that travels through his lungs, heartbeat that keeps the fluid in his veins pumping—he is so close to becoming a real person that it is starting to get increasingly difficult to remain patient. Yet he must; he can feel that Potter has much more to give him, even if he cannot figure out how that is possible without the boy weakening.

"Duel who?" Potter asks reluctantly.

"Do you not have a duelling club?" When he shakes his head Tom feels somewhat exasperated with how pathetic Hogwarts has become. "Challenge someone for a friendly spar, then. What of that Malfoy boy?"

Potter looks contemplative, watching Tom walk about the dorms in a somewhat bored manner, searching for something interesting to read.

"I did duel him before, but it got interrupted."

"How so?" Tom inquires, though he's only half-interested in the response.

"Well, he shot a snake at me, from his wand," Potter begins. "And then I started talking to it, so the duel was—"

Tom freezes, head snapping up from the Quidditch magazine he was perusing as he stares at Potter as if seeing him for the first time. "You talked to a snake? It could understand you?"

Potter flushes an embarrassed deep pink. "Yeah. I can speak Parceltongue. It happened once before, during Dudley's birthday, and, er, during that duel."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" Tom says after a long pause, doing his best to hide his agitation, his tone quiet, albeit strained.

"It-it slipped my mind."

"It slipped your—" Tom looks away and takes a deep breath through his nostrils. How is this possible? The only ones who should be able to speak Parceltongue are Salazar Slytherin's descendants. The Potter lineage is certainly not part of that group—_he_ should be the only Parcelmouth still living today.

"Tom?" It's only when Potter says his name with a somewhat anxious look on his face that Tom realizes his behaviour is giving the boy a negative impression.

He twists his lips in a flawlessly rehearsed smile, reassuring Potter instantly. "I'm sorry, Harry, you just took me by surprise for a moment." He does not reveal his own gift; small though the chance may be, Potter could link it back to the heir of Slytherin.

"That's fine, I mean, I used to think talking to snakes was a normal thing for wizards at first."

Tom notices the odd contrast to himself when he'd first learned of his gift; five-year old Tom Riddle had been convinced it was a special talent unique to him only. It seems he will never cease to be surprised by this boy.

"Harry," he says after a brief silence. "How have you been doing lately?"

"Erm, fine, really."

"You're in good health, I take it?"

"Yeah, nothing to complain about."

Tom nods once and turns to look out the window, contemplating if Potter's magical core is really that large, or if there's something wrong with their link. This oddity, not the first one in a string of oddities relating to the boy, is one in particular that he cannot let go. It goes against the way the magic is supposed to work. Even if he gains more power by the day, to have such a blatant irregularity remain unexplained is getting on his nerves.

For the next few days Tom appears distracted and strangely quiet to Harry, who wonders but could not possibly guess at the reason for his friend's peculiar demeanour.

* * *

February fades into March, and Tom decides that being stuck inside the diary for a majority of the day is a nuisance he's put up with long enough.

While he is fully aware of his environment, not being able to actually interact with it has been a great frustration to him, one he thinks he can now overcome as he has become stronger very rapidly in the past few months. When manifested in the dorms, he starts flexing some of his ever-increasing magical power. He can make objects levitate, exercise some force by making things combust at will, and is quite capable of Legilimency (though it drains him quickly).

Then he starts toying with the idea of invisibility.

Theoretically it _is_ possible. If he utilizes the bond the diary has expressly with Potter, then he should be able to control being visible just to the boy and no outsiders. He does not have a body, after all. He is but a shard of a soul, just a step above poltergeists.

Attempting it will be a bit risky. If he does not get it right in his first try, he'll be exposed to others, but as always, Tom is fully confident in his ability, and predictably, by the time March is halfway through, he gets it right in his first try.

When he and Harry are once more having a conversation in the otherwise empty dorms, Weasley and two other boys Tom never bothered to memorize the names of enter with loud chatter.

"Hey, Harry." Weasley greets the boy, walking right past Tom. Potter is flabbergasted, eyes wildly flitting from Tom to his friend. "Something wrong, mate? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Tom chuckles softly as Potter blinks twice, shaking his head while the corners of his mouth curve upwards. "Yeah, m'fine. Just a bit tired, is all."

His manifestations increase both in frequency and his length as Tom continues to work on extending both factors. It gets to the point where it might be detrimental to Potter's education, what with Tom walking around during lessons or tormenting Crabbe and Goyle (he enjoys writing down random threats of gruesome violence and torture in their notebooks when they're not looking, and watching their panicked reaction). Potter often prefers to watch him instead of listening to the teacher.

"Mr. Potter," Snape sneers during one Potions lesson, having caught his student's distracted behaviour. "Perhaps you would like to inform the class of the answer?"

Tom, who had been tying Goyle's shoelaces together with magic (Potter's idea), supplies him with a response to the question of what ingredient is a staple in most Explosive Potions. "Dragon scales."

"It's dragon scales, sir." Potter repeats instantly.

The look on Snape's face is hardly flattering. "Five points from Gryffindor."

Potter opens his mouth to protest hotly but catches Tom's intent look. "Nod and apologize."

Potter looks scandalized.

"Just do it."

And so he does, reluctantly. The look on Snape's face when he hears the word 'sorry' come out of Potter's mouth is entirely worth it.

It does become a bit of a problem in certain areas, though. On one occasion Tom accidentally walked into a student, literally. The girl turned pale and nearly fainted on the spot. Clearly walking around the hallways with Potter in between lessons isn't an option after this revelation, which is a bit of a bother as he always delighted in roaming the castle in his own time at Hogwarts.

Still, all things considered, Tom should feel ecstatic with the progress he's booking, but there's an alarming feeling of disquietude that prevents any sort of satisfaction. He sinks into longer periods of thought, his distraction and silence even palpable to Potter.

_"Is everything okay?" _he writes to Tom on the evening of Gryffindor's final victory over Hufflepuff, capturing the Quidditch Cup. The sounds of celebration lasted until the early morning hours, and apparently Potter still can't sleep, his energy rolling off him in waves. _"You've been really quiet lately."_ he adds when Tom doesn't immediately respond.

He considers weaving a quick lie to put the boy to rest, but his creativity is low and he settles for evasion.

"_Go to sleep, Harry." _

It is either his influence or Potter's own benevolence that makes him listen to Tom; either way he feels the diary close shut and the lack of warmth from familiar hands a moment later.

Once more, he is alone.

* * *

Change begins on a breezy but sunny Thursday afternoon near the end of April when Potter groans at his Transfiguration homework and, rather than aiding him as he tends to do, Tom amuses himself by watching the mental gymnastics that get more ridiculous as time goes on.

"But, wait, that doesn't make sense!" Potter scowls at his textbook, holding it up and looking to be on the verge of attempting to shake the answers out of it, his essay only half-written. "You can conjure water out of thin air with a charm, but not food? Or transform something else into food? Or money? _What_?"

"Food and money are both part of the Five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration." Tom supplies unhelpfully, sitting on Potter's bed and playing wizard's chess against himself. "Pawn to E5."

"Oh," Potter replies slowly, putting his textbook down again and starting to peruse it, probably searching for the thing Tom just mentioned, who watches a white knight get destroyed by a black pawn, before looking up expectantly for the boy to ask another question.

He doesn't. Potter looks perfectly satisfied with Tom's answer and whatever information he's found in the book, and does not question it further. He knows he should hardly care about what Potter knows about Transfiguration since he's destined to die before the school year is up, but this irks him to the point where he _has _to say something.

"You're content with that answer?"

Potter looks up, a startled look on his face. "Er… yeah, I guess." he says after a hesitant pause. "If it's part of magical law or whatever—"

"It isn't."

"What?"

Tom sighs deeply, putting the chessboard aside on Potter's night-stand and shifting over to the edge of the bed where Potter is seated, snatching the textbook out of his grasp and throwing it aside, the book landing on the ground with a harsh thud.

"What are you_ doing_?"

"Forget whatever drivel you've read from that book—I am disappointed in you, Harry," he scolds lightly. "I thought I taught you better than to simply swallow everything you're told."

"But—"

"Magical law _does not exist._"

Potter blinks once, twice, his mouth opens and closes and at least five seconds pass before he seems to finally process Tom's statement. "Of course it does, there's-there's limits for every branch of magic."

"That's what you've been taught as a result of the wilful ignorance and cowardice of dozens of generations. They pretend magic is something that can be defined in numbers, formulas, wand movements and Latin phrases—Potions and Arithmancy are the most scientific branches there are. Transfiguration has been restricted because of mere politics." He becomes more frustrated by this subject than he should, loses that sliver of self-control out of resentment.

Potter is still a child, but he isn't stupid. He understands what Tom is getting at, but because of being told the opposite for three years in a row, he has difficulty accepting it, seeming more inclined to doubt Tom, to doubt the person who has taught him more in a few months than his entire Hogwarts career so far—the little ingrate. "So you're saying Professor McGonagall is wrong? All those textbooks written on Transfiguration are wrong?"

"In part, yes." Tom responds briskly. "What do you think magic is, Potter? Do you think it can be defined by mathematics, explained by physics, categorized as a science? The whole point of magic is that it's _outside _the laws of nature that the Muggles swear by. It is an undefinable variable, inexplicable and in a category of its own. Magical law does not exist; magic is by definition lawless, only restricted by human ineptitude."

To prove his point, he grabs Potter's wand and his quill (realizes only then that he has misspoken and called him Potter instead of Harry), and with a flick of the wand (that bends surprisingly easily to his will) it turns into an apple. Potter's jaw drops as Tom calmly hands him the apple, feeling a large chunk of his magic now drained.

(Though he feels it's worth it. He isn't sure _why _he feels it's worth wasting magic just to show Potter that little trick—some part of him realizes with cold dread that he does not even truly consider it a waste. That he considers it completely rational, despite there being no real justification behind it; no particular benefit for him, no gain, no leverage. And yet he did it without thinking, as if it came naturally.

Somewhere along the line, teaching Potter became enjoyable.)

It is also curious how well Potter's wand fit in his hand, the sensation familiar and reminding him of his own. It will do as a fitting replacement once its owner is out of the way.

"How… how did you... but the book clearly said—"

"Forget about the book." Tom snaps as his temper escapes from him, and his body tenses as his mind has started losing grip on the realm of cold logic, starting to meddle in the unpredictable factor of emotional attachment, something that equates always to weakness, always to failure, always to the unknown, and in turn, terrifies him. "You can transform anything with enough concentration and enough willpower. Why should you be able to turn a cup into a rat but not a carrot? Magic makes no distinctions, or exceptions; _we _do.

"Of course they would never tell the general public this. If people could make their own money, their own food, make their own houses and clothes, what need would there be for currency, society, economy? The Ministry of Magic would be crippled and lose its control over the working class, and the entirety of the wizarding world would collapse on itself."

In part, Tom has Albus Dumbledore to thank for this discovery; it came down to a stubborn thirteen year old prodigy burning to prove the renown Transfiguration Professor wrong when introduced to the Five Principal Exceptions. He is certain Dumbledore too is aware that these limits are man-made, so his supposed victory rang a bit hollow at the time, but the accomplishment opened up a door to a new world of possibilities.

If left to the imagination, if controlled by sheer mental fortitude, is there anything that isn't possible with magic? They have only scratched the bare surface of its true capacity, and no one seems to realize it or care at all to explore further. They squander their potential, blind sheep that have been tricked into thinking a fence surrounds them when they're standing in an endless meadow. It sickens him, elicits revulsion towards his fellow man that could turn him (has already turned Lord Voldemort) into a person lacking any regard for the lives around him. They cannot see what he sees; they're too feeble, dim-witted and frightened. Therefore, they are worthless.

"Is that..." Potter clears his throat, eyes still fixated on the forbidden fruit, seeming in doubt for the briefest moment before his expression becomes thoughtful. "Can you teach me that as well?"

But perhaps, reflected in the wonder-filled green eyes of this curious boy that always prods him for more knowledge, there is a chance for redemption.

"Do you truly wish to learn it?" Tom asks quietly, hoping both for a yes and a no answer. There is an ambition that is split in two ways; the scholar within him delights, while Voldemort (still young, but adamant) is immensely frustrated. This is not the plan, this was never the plan. Everything deviates, the screws are loosened up and the seams are splitting, and he doesn't know how to stop it, this new-found indulgence.

It is so refreshing, such a different route altogether that he cannot help but be coaxed into it by his own fascination. He should be panic-stricken by how fast Potter is picking all this up, how eager he is to learn, to _grow_, but as Tom looks at him now and sees a child that has barely reached his transition into adolescence, he cannot see him as a threat.

(_'A pupil,'_ he realizes in an internal moment of horror. _'I am attached to him as my pupil.'_

_'Attachment is weakness.'_

_'Weakness is intolerable.'_

_'I must kill him, as soon as possible.'_

_'He __must__ die.'_)

"Yeah, I'd like to know." Potter says, and takes a bite out of the apple.

* * *

7 May, 1994.

It has to happen tonight.

Sirius Black will probably be cross with him for stealing his kill, but Tom can delay no longer. The final piece is needed for him to reach freedom and for that cause, Potter has to die tonight.

The boy has been mostly focused on his studies for the past few days as summer break approaches, being in the midst of his exams, though there are some distractions, as always. Potter has become restless, mainly because of the letter he received a few days ago from the Minister of Magic, which caused quite a commotion, even leading Dumbledore himself to call him up to his office for a private conversation the very next morning.

When Harry—Potter, when _Potter_ returned to the dorms, he looked a bit fidgety. Weasley of course wanted to know all about it. The Minister had written to Har—_Potter _about his family situation which the Ministry looked into and found, after a thorough investigation which involved the interrogation of Vernon Dursley, that the home was quite unsuitable for Har—for Potter—

(_'Damn it all.'_)

—for Harry to reside in any longer. On grounds of severe psychological abuse from his aunt and uncle, and frequent physical assault from his cousin, they were going to remove him from the Dursleys. They already found numerous foster families that would be delighted in taking him in, but assured they'd be taking his preference into consideration.

Tom thought Harry would be ecstatic at the prospect, and he did look rather triumphant for a while, but he doesn't look as certain of his victory any more after his conversation with Dumbledore.

"He said..." Harry, sitting on Weasley's bed and talking to him in hushed tones, looks paler than usual. "He said that when my mum sacrificed her life to save me, she cast some sort of magic ward over me that made Voldemort's curse bounce back."

Tom stood very, very still.

"So... so what, love magic? That's what saved you?" Weasley inquires with a frown. "I always thought that stuff only happened in fairy tales. But what's that got to do with the Dursleys?"

The power of love? That's what had defeated Lord Voldemort? A mother's love for her child?

"Well," Harry takes a deep breath. "My aunt Petunia is from my mum's side of the family. Same blood, so, as long as I'm with her, the ward will make sure no one can harm me."

Tom exhales and his lips twitch in a nearly maniacal smirk, as he suppresses the bubbling of laughter pressing to escape his chest. It wasn't love magic that protected Harry at all.

It was blood magic.

_Blood magic _of all things, though unintentional, but blood magic nonetheless; that branch of magic considered so vile to most of society until it becomes useful to them—noble, even. Lily Potter, the sacrificial lamb that offered her neck to the butcher, her blood protecting her son. A life for a life.

Oh, the sweet hypocrisy.

"But... you aren't going back to the Dursleys, are you?" Weasley whispers while the rest of their room-mates snore on. "I'm sure the ward is great and all, but there have to be other ways to protect you."

"It's just that, if Voldemort ever returns, this is the only sure method to keep me safe."

"Oh, come on, mate! You're not seriously considering—"

"I don't know, Ron!" Harry hisses at the redhead, looking rather bleak. "Dumbledore said it's up to me, but I think he'd prefer it if I... if I stayed with the Dursleys. At least until I turn seventeen, that's when it stops working. Hermione thinks so too."

"But you didn't tell Hermione about how they locked up all your belongings, did you?" Weasley points out with an angry look, his friend becoming guilty as he had only very recently admitted to all that the Dursleys put him through the past few years. "Harry, you can't stay with these people, magic ward or not."

"I need some time to think about it." Harry decides, effectively putting a full stop behind the conversation.

Tom, having regained his composure now Harry is giving him periodic anxious glances, ruminates on why Dumbledore is so intent on having the boy remain with the abusive Muggles. He isn't too concerned about the ward itself as Harry's death has already been planned for tonight, but from what he knows of the old fool ever-preaching on compassion and understanding and love, it wholly goes against the psychological profile Tom has built up in his head of the Headmaster. While Dumbledore is not afraid to play his pawns, this looks _senseless_. There is no absolute logic that can justify complete security in unhappy circumstances taking precedence over slightly less security in much happier circumstances. On an ethical level, it does not hold up.

Then again, Tom has been under the assumption that Dumbledore's attachment to Harry (much like his own, a treacherous part of his subconscious reminds him) has been that of a mentor to a pupil. Now he actually puts thought into it, the assumption seems baseless. Why should the legendary Albus Dumbledore attach himself to a boy whose skills and talents are only in a few areas exceptional, some areas above average, most areas mediocre, and a few other areas sub-par—all in all, your everyday student? Aside from a few select moments of private conversations, Dumbledore does not even seem that particularly concerned with the boy otherwise, choosing for a cold, calculated approach that puts Harry's generally-being-alive above any and all happiness and mental health.

Furthermore, even if one were to suppose the attachment was spawned purely because of what Harry "did", it all becomes rather illogical when one realizes that Harry did not defeat Lord Voldemort at all and didn't really "do" anything. As far as Tom is concerned, the actual vanquisher of the Dark Lord is Lily Potter, not her son who sat obliviously wrapped in her protective ward at the age of one. _She _should be the one to be lauded and praised into eternity, and yet everyone puts Harry on a pedestal, worships him as if he had accomplished a great feat just by existing. Dumbledore never corrected the public's misconception. He allowed Harry to be seen as their great rescuer.

Why? What does he know about Harry that justifies this charade? Why pit him, this boy, this mere _child_, against the greatest dark wizard history has ever seen, knowing failure is imminent?

The lack of knowledge is unsettling. Tom feels that he is missing a vital piece of information that could destroy every supposition made so far, every hypothesis and every scheme laid out, but he has no way of finding out at the moment. Patience, once more, is required.

Harry stands up and briefly distracts him as he mutters about packing his books for the day while Weasley mentions something about visiting the gamekeeper, the half-giant, after classes.

"Take the diary with you," Tom says quietly to Harry, thinking it better if he keeps an eye on the boy for the majority of the day in case an opportunity presents itself. It would be ideal to rip out the last of Harry's life force outside on the grounds, where getting away from the anti-Apparition wards is easier.

The unsuspecting boy does exactly as he's told, not knowing he is signing away on his own death sentence. It seems almost… unfitting, to end it so simply, to murder him through betrayal instead of any actual skill. It leaves him with a lingering feeling of distaste that is otherwise irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, but perhaps remarkable in the fact that the cause of it is not a point of pride, but another kind of emotion.

It is not fondness, or respect, or even sympathy. It could be compared to nurturing a plant for a few days in a large garden as a hobby and eventually finding that it is in the garden's best interest to uproot it and get rid of it. This pitying sort of sensation he experiences at planning a murder is something most people would find incredibly unsettling, yet it is the most he has ever felt for one of his victims. The mudblood girl, his muggle father and his muggle grandparents were all weeds he was happy to get rid of, the latter two particularly inspired by personal resentment. The former is what he believed to be his duty as Salazar Slytherin's heir, his heritage being one of the few things of any value to him.

Harry is the first one that is different. He will be the one breaking the pattern of cold-blooded or rage-filled murder; killing him will almost feel like a waste. The aberration in his thinking is a first, and the mere potential and implication of it is enough to disturb him. Had it taken a year more, could Tom have been _reluctant _to kill him? Could he eventually have come to regret it, had he allowed for this to develop further? The thought nauseates him in its suggestion of sheer vulnerability, of weakness. It is a relief to know that it will all be ending tonight.

Harry and his friend eventually leave the dorms, Tom following closely behind them. While he cannot be seen by anyone else but Harry, he has enough physical presence to be hindered by doors and walls. Once they leave the portrait hole, they encounter another one of Harry's friends, the muggleborn witch.

For a mudblood, she is impressive. Certainly the brightest student in the third year, somehow having found a way to take most subjects on even though there would be obvious conflicts in her schedule. Blood, as it is, is not so much indicative of a definite inferiority for Tom as it is a mere observation of the statistical likelihood that muggleborns start not only with a disadvantage, but that they are also a risk.

His view on them is less based on prejudice and more based on a factually perceived danger, and an ignorance he believes they harbour that can render their studies in Hogwarts ultimately valueless as most muggleborns often choose to return to the world they know instead of integrating. It is understandable, but inexcusable, and his lack of empathy and sense of apathy is what makes his approach to them so cruel. Why accept them into these schools, why risk these incidents of exposure, just to train students who will most likely never truly appreciate what they are taught?

At this stage in his life, retaining the mindset and logic of his sixteen year old self, there is very little hatred, and more a sort of loathing similar to that of when one encounters a cockroach in their kitchen.

Yet, some exceptions can be made. Hermione Granger has proven herself to be one of those exceptions—her personal circumstances he is willing to overlook as she is extremely intelligent and naturally skilled, thus promises to make significant contributions to society. Most muggleborns make little to no actual contribution. Therefore, from a very practical (a very cold-blooded) perspective, there is no point in keeping them around, in accepting them.

Granger, in any case, is entirely ignorant of the manifested Horcrux hovering around and examining her. She and the Weasley boy have still been in a bit of a fight, but apparently Harry's dilemma is enough to bring them together once more as the ginger immediately pulls her aside.

"Did you tell him to stay with the Dursleys? Are you mad?!"

"I thought you weren't talking to me anymore?" Granger says, pulling up her nose and looking away pointedly.

"They took away his books, you know!" Weasley continues, ignoring her sneer. "They always make him lock away all his stuff so he can't do his homework, and wait until I tell you about the cupboard—"

"They did _what_?" Granger shrieks as if she's been stung by a bee, spinning around wildly to face Harry who looks as if he's fervently wishing to sink into the wall behind him. "Harry, why didn't you tell me? Does Professor Dumbledore know?"

Harry glances at Tom, eyes pleading for him to provide an escape, but Tom is not at all inclined to start interfering in this dispute since it does not matter _what _Harry chooses in the end. He merely smiles pleasantly as if there _wasn't_ a girl screeching like a particularly offended banshee and assaulting his eardrums in the corridor.

Ultimately, in spite of both his friends teaming up on him, Harry manages to escape by reminding them they'll be late for class if they keep standing around, the common room behind them nearly completely empty. Tom follows.

* * *

The classes pass smoothly, Harry choosing to actually pay attention to his teachers, no doubt if only to get away from Granger and Weasley's constant badgering. Tom does not interact much with him, most of the lessons choosing to stand around near the windows and look outside, pondering things such as how the wind will feel to his skin when blood finally gives it warmth. As he is now, he feels barely anything from sunlight or cold breezes. He wonders what his first meal should be, how it will taste after having gone all that time without food. He _can _actually eat, but it is unnecessary, and he thinks it would only be a poor imitation of the real experience.

Most of all, though, he looks forward of having his own wand again, being once more at full power, to relive that thrill of complete control of the entire force of his magic. His freedom is but a few hours away, but the closer it approaches the slower time ticks and the tenser he becomes. He is a patient young man, but he is not a saint.

When the three children venture outside after classes, Tom stays at a distance, lest they hear or see his footsteps in the grass. He has very little interest in the visit to the gamekeeper, and decides to stay outside—it is too small in the clumsily built cabin, and he is not certain if he gives off any scent, but if he does then that large mongrel the half-giant calls a pet will certainly pick up on it.

He walks along leisurely in the back-garden as he waits for the visit to end, watching the sun on its daily routine of sinking into death, all its golden light becoming discoloured to orange and red and pink in the sky as it's slowly pulled down while darkness creeps. There are noises from inside, none that really pique his interest; he is making plans to track down his original, going down a list of locations to search as soon as he is done here.

It is only when about fifteen minutes later the kids come out again and making quite a commotion that Tom is for the first time distracted from his contemplations, and pays attention to whatever it is the children are up to this time.

Weasley is holding something in his hands that is squealing rather wildly.

"Oh, please, Ron," Granger begins irritably, glancing at him over her shoulder.

"It's Scabbers — he won't — stay put—"

Weasley is bent over, trying to keep Scabbers in his pocket, but the rat is going berserk; squeaking madly, twisting and flailing, trying to sink his teeth into Weasley's hand. Apparently the rodent hadn't been eaten by Granger's cat.

Pity. Tom never liked rodents.

"Scabbers, it's me, you idiot! It's Ron!" Weasley snaps in frustration.

They walk forward once more, or at least, attempt to. Tom faintly wonders why they don't just stun the creature and be done with it; all this upheaval over such a tiny thing is getting on his last nerve. They've walked up the slope to where the cabin is now quite a few metres away, but once again, Weasley stops and struggles.

"I can't hold him—"

Scabbers looks plainly terrified. He's writhing with all his might, trying to break free of his owner's grip. There's something really off with that rat, but Tom doesn't care enough to spare any synapses to the thinking process of figuring out the cause.

"What's the matter with him?" Harry asks with a frown, edging closer to Weasley and his rat to get a better look.

Then—stalking toward them, his body low to the ground, wide yellow eyes glinting eerily in the darkness—Crookshanks. Tom notices the cat first from his peripheral vision, and is actually glad that the feline is here. Perhaps it can finally put an end to all this nonsense. Whether said cat can see them or is following the sound of Scabbers's squeaks, Tom can't tell, but he hopes either way that it will swallow down that bloody rat.

"Crookshanks!" Granger moans. "No, go away, Crookshanks! Go away!"

But the cat is getting nearer—

"Scabbers—NO!"

Too late—the rat slips between Weasley's clutching fingers, hits the ground, and scampers away. In one bound, Crookshanks springs after him, and before anyone could stop him, Ron pelts away into the darkness, chasing the two animals. Tom almost chuckles, but reminds himself he's within Granger's hearing range.

"Ron!" Granger calls after him, futilely.

She and Harry look at each other, then follow at a sprint; they can hear his feet thundering along ahead and his shouts at Crookshanks, but with it being evening and the sun having gone down it makes everything a lot harder. Tom is not at all happy at having to run now, following after two dim-wits who didn't think to simply petrify the rat in the first place, but he has little choice.

"Get away from him, get away—Scabbers, come here—"

There's a loud thud, shadows moving.

"Gotcha! Get off, you stinking cat—"

Harry and Hermione almost fall over Weasley; they skid to a stop right in front of him. He's sprawled on the ground, but Scabbers is back in his pocket. He has both hands held tight over the quivering lump.

"Ron, get up—Crookshanks! Bad, very bad!" Granger scolds the hissing cat and reaches down to help up Weasley together with Harry. Tom watches with an annoyed frown and brushes his hair back.

But before Weasley can even stand up, before they can catch their breath, they hear the soft pounding of gigantic paws rustling the grass and thudding on the hard earth below.

Something is bounding toward them, quiet as a shadow—an enormous, pale-eyed, jet-black dog.

Tom raises his eyebrows at the ridiculous turn of events. First a cat, now a dog? Dogs aren't known for chasing rats, unless the dog was attracted by the noise and has a case of rabies or is particularly aggressive. Odd that a stray dog should wander this far into the grounds, however. And yet, no one is really doing anything but _staring _at it as it approaches.

"Harry, use your wand," he hisses impatiently into the boy's ear, which seems to wake him up as he pulls it out and aims for the dog.

Harry opens his mouth to fire a spell, but too late—the dog makes an enormous leap and the front paws hit him on the chest; he keels over backward in a whirl of hair. Tom moves away in the nick of time, and the dog backs away, turning its sharp teeth elsewhere.

Weasley has the misfortune of feeling the force of said teeth as they bury into the flesh of his leg. Harry lunges forward, stupidly seizing a handful of the brute's hair instead of using his wand, but it's dragging Weasley away as easily as though he were a rag doll. Tom considers taking Harry's wand from him and handling this himself.

Then, out of nowhere, something hits Harry so hard across the face he's knocked off his feet again, whatever it is that hit him narrowly missing Tom's cheek—he can feel a sharp whip of air hitting his skin. Next to them Granger is hit in the stomach and falls down onto the ground as well. Tom can make out faint shapes of something huge moving in the dark but with the sky having gotten even darker it is hard to make out clearly.

"Lumos!"

The bright light from Harry's wand illuminates the trunk of a thick and old tree; they've chased Scabbers into the shadow of the Whomping Willow and its branches are creaking as though in a high wind, whipping backward and forward to stop them going nearer.

Tom is not amused. He isn't all that familiar with this tree as it was planted quite a while after his time, but seeing as it seems to be a magical tree, he doubts many spells would work against it effectively. He smoothly moves out of the reach of its branches.

"Try the immobilizing spell," he calls to Harry who narrowly rolls to the side, avoiding a branch crushing his head.

The boy manages to push himself up while Granger yelps as she ducks for a swinging branch that nearly takes her head off, and points to the rather furious seeming tree, roaring, "IMMOBULUS!"

A bright blue spark shoots out the tip and hits the trunk—it makes the entire tree glow a flash of blue as it freezes it instantly, the sudden silence deafening. The spell has an effect that is most likely very temporary, however; both Harry and Tom realize this, and dart to the gap between the roots before it wears off. Tom reaches it first, and slides down the earthly slope of the narrow hole to the bottom of a very low tunnel, Harry following right behind. Granger realizes too late what has happened remaining at the edge of the tree's reach, and after the three seconds of still branches, the Willow starts swinging again and she cannot follow.

"Harry!" she yells while Harry is making an embarrassed apology for nearly knocking Tom over with his haphazard landing, Tom barely managing to keep both of them standing by having caught the boy by his arms.

"Get help from the castle!" a red-faced Harry calls to the outside, awkwardly shuffling out of Tom's personal space, who is rather annoyed at having dirtied his robes and shoes. After brushing off clots of earth, he turns his attention to the tunnel in front of them instead. It is rather narrow, and even with Harry's wand illuminating it, it looks to be quite long as well, not heading towards Hogwarts, but rather towards Hogsmeade.

"Peculiar," he muses. "I wonder what this was built for?"

"We have to move!" Harry hisses, neither sharing Tom's curiosity and not keen on lingering either. "Ron is—"

"Yes, of course, let's move," Tom replies with a sigh. He couldn't care less about Weasley's well being, and is a lot more interested in this tunnel and where it ends. It could be a perfect way to sneak into the castle should he need to do so later on.

Harry is nearly running and Tom is a bit chagrin of having to keep a similar pace. The tunnel is quite lengthy, but seems to run in a mostly straight line, and as they go further it widens comfortably. Eventually, though, the tunnel begins to rise and narrow again until they find themselves in front of a small opening that indicates the end of the tunnel, and their destination.

It leads to a room, a very disordered, dusty room. Paper is peeling from the walls, there are stains all over the floor, and every piece of furniture is broken as though somebody smashed it. The windows are all boarded up.

Tom glances at Harry, who looks rather tense, but nods nonetheless.

He pulls himself out of the hole first, and after patting all the dust and dirt off his clothes with an irritated look, he surveys his surroundings. The room is deserted, but a door to their right stands open, leading to a shadowy hallway. His eyes briefly fall on a wooden chair near them as Harry gets on his feet. Large chunks have been torn out of it; one of the legs has been ripped off entirely.

"Most likely," Tom murmurs as he moves quietly towards the boarded windows and peeks through the small gaps to see a familiar landscape, "we're in the Shrieking Shack."

At that moment, there's a loud creaking of old wood overhead. Something moves upstairs. Both of them look up at the ceiling, that looks like it could collapse at any second.

"Keep your wand ready," Tom hisses as he moves into the hall first. Going up the crumbling staircase is a bit of a problem and will most certainly give away their presence, so he instructs Harry to cast a silencing charm on it. Everything on the steps is covered in a thick layer of dust, except for the floor, where a wide shiny stripe has been made by something being dragged upstairs.

They reach the dark landing.

"Nox," Harry whispers, and the light at the end of his wand goes out. Only one door is open—obviously a trap. As they creep toward it, they hear movement as well as other noises from behind it; namely a low groan that sounds rather pained. They exchange a last look, a last nod.

Wand held tightly before him, Harry kicks the door wide open.

A bit theatrical, but oh well.

In the room itself resides a magnificent four-poster bed with dusty hangings, as well as what must've once been an elegant vanity, though its mirror is covered in dust like everything else in the Shack, and decorated with numerous cracks. There's also a large closet that has a drawer missing and another one pulled out and half-smashed. On the floor between the vanity and the closet right in the corner, clutching his leg which sticks out at a strange angle, is Weasley.

Harry dashes across to him while Tom has the sense to look around, where he spots someone lingering near the doorway. Harry is oblivious to it, tending to his friend instead.

"Ron, are you okay? Where's the dog?"

"Not a dog," Weasley moans, his teeth gritted with pain as his friend tries to pull him up. "Harry, it's a trap—"

"What—"

"He's the dog, he's an Animagus!"

Weasley is staring over Harry's shoulder, at what Tom has been looking at all along. Harry wheels around. With a snap, the man in the shadows closes the door behind them.

A mass of filthy, matted hair hangs to his elbows, and if eyes hadn't been shining out of the deep, dark sockets, he might have been a corpse. The waxy skin is stretched so tightly over the bones of his face, it looks like a skull, his yellow teeth are bared in a grin, and his clothes are little more than rags covering his wiry frame. It's none other than Sirius Black.

"_Expelliarmus_!" he croaks, pointing Weasley's wand at them in a move surprisingly quick for someone that looks worse than an Inferi.

Harry's wand shoots out of his hand, high in the air, and Black catches it. He takes a step closer, eyes fixated on Harry.

Tom thinks it odd that Black used such a basic and harmless spell on his supposed target. He isn't very concerned—at any point, should he feel like it, he can simply pluck Harry's wand out of Black's hand and kill him instantly, but for now, he is curious as to what the madman has planned.

"I thought you'd come and help your friend," he says hoarsely.

His voice sounds as though he has long since lost the habit of using it. "Your father would have done the same for me. Brave of you, not to run for a teacher. I'm grateful... it will make everything much easier..."

"You-you knew my father?" Harry looks paler than usual, the colour slowly draining out of his face—though not as pale as Weasley who looks absolutely horrified, and in spite of it, does something _incredibly_ stupid.

"If you want to kill Harry, you'll have to kill me too!" he says fiercely, though the effort of standing upright is taking its toll on him and he sways slightly as he speaks.

Something flickers in Black's shadowed eyes.

"Lie down," he says quietly to Ron. "You will damage that leg even more."

Tom thinks only a Gryffindor could do something that idiotic and pointless and still get some rather intriguing results. This man is not the mass-murdering insane person Tom had been expecting; there is something very odd going on. Why would Sirius Black grab the wrong person? Harry was standing right next to Weasley, and it doesn't make sense to take his friend hostage when you can simply take out your target instead.

"Did you hear me?" Weasley says weakly, though he's clinging painfully to Harry to stay upright. "You'll have to kill both of us!"

"There'll be only one murder here tonight," Black replies, his grin widening, but when he says that, he glances not at Harry, or even at Weasley, but at the rat that's been quivering in Weasley's pocket.

Then it occurs to him.

'_An Animagus...' _

"Harry," Tom whispers very calmly, never taking his eyes off the rat. "Ask him what he wants."

Weasley is bewildered at hearing his voice, but that will be dealt with later. Harry looks at him from the corners of his eyes as if he's lost his mind.

"Do as I say."

The cool tone of command is enough to persuade the boy, who knows better than to disregard what Tom tells him. Harry, blood trickling down the side of his face, looks to Black and with reluctance dripping off his words, asks, "What do you want?"

Black points directly to Scabbers. "That-that's all I want—"

"Why? What do you want from Scabbers? He's just an ordinary rat!" Weasley cries, cupping the rat protectively with one hand.

"That's not a rat—that's an Animagus," Black croaks, his eyes glinting madly, "by the name of Peter Pettigrew."

Framed. Black was framed. What reason would he have to lie, and such a preposterous lie at that? Now it also makes sense why Black was standing over Weasley's bed the night he broke into Gryffindor Tower. He was after the rat all along. He was after Pettigrew.

"You're mental!"

"Pettigrew is supposed to be dead," Harry states, looking from the rat back to Black, seeming uncertain, and glances once to Tom, who shakes his head. "What proof do you have that he's the rat?" If nothing else, at least Harry is keeping his composure.

"I'll show you! Give him to me and I'll show you!"

Harry is in thought about it, the tension nearly making his muscles shake. Tom already knows what his own answer would be in this situation, and is interested in seeing what route Harry will choose—if their lessons together has had an effect on the boy's thinking at all. It's silly, and he shouldn't care whether they did have an effect or not, but it never hurts to see the fruits of one's labour.

When Harry then finally but hesitantly turns to Weasley (to Tom's satisfaction), the ginger screams bloody murder. "I'M NOT GIVING HIM SCABBERS!"

"Ron, maybe-maybe he's… _why would he make up such a stupid lie_?!" Harry bellows when Weasley pushes him away and ends up nearly falling down on the floor, saved only by Harry pulling him upright again. "Just _think_ for a second, Ron!"

"He's insane, Harry! He spent twelve bloody years in Azkaban, he's not right in the head! You can't trust him!"

"If we just give him the rat—"

"THEN HE'LL KILL IT!"

Tom reaches over, catches the rat's tail poking out of Weasley's pocket, and throws him down onto the ground in front of Black's feet. There is only a split-second of complete silence when multiple things happen at once; Black fires off a spell that very briefly engulfs the room in a blue-white colour, Weasley screams and lunges in an attempt to protect the rat, Harry tries to pull Weasley back, and the door is blasted off its hinges, revealing several people standing in the hallway.

There's another blinding flash of light and then—

It's like watching a speeded-up film of a growing tree. A head shoots upward from the ground, limbs are sprouting, fur is disappearing as if it had never been, and a moment later, a man is standing where Scabbers had been, cringing and wringing his hands. At the same time, Black is disarmed by a spell and Harry and Weasley's wands end up in the hand of none other than Albus Dumbledore—Tom tenses instantly, and while he knows the man can't see him, he could still hear him, pick up traces of his presence if the prints of footsteps on the floorboards are examined close enough.

"Merlin's beard," a voice from the hallway comes from behind the Headmaster, and Lupin, standing right behind Dumbledore steps forward into the room, wand raised and staring at the small man. "Peter?"

Tom does not like how cramped the room has gotten. There is Dumbledore, who stands in front of the doorway and looks from Pettigrew to Black, understanding dawning in a glint in the eyes behind the glasses. There is Snape, who instantly moves forward and puts the tip of his wand to Black's throat. There is McGonagall, who moves to the two boys standing backed in a corner and instructs Harry to get Weasley seated so she can take a look at his leg. There's Pettigrew, clinging to Lupin's robes and pleading for his life.

Needless to say, it is all somewhat chaotic. Tom doesn't care to stick around and hear the whole story behind all this nonsense. The longer he remains, the more paranoid he becomes of being discovered—if anyone could, it is Dumbledore, and he already does not like the glances the Headmaster shoots specifically in his direction while Black talks to Lupin and they sort out the whole ordeal, Pettigrew put under a silencing charm by Snape.

Taking a last look at Harry, who is glued to the story being told, Tom manages to maneuver around McGonagall and Pettigrew, and while holding his breath, makes it around Dumbledore quietly. He is reluctant to walk any further as he knows he will cause some creaking on the old floorboards, but it is better to risk that than to wait around in the lion's den.

He is far too proud to admit it, even to himself, but if he were to make a list of his fears, 'Dumbledore' would be second to 'Death'.

* * *

The wait is excruciating. While it is fortunate that Tom does not have to be near the diary any more to remain manifested, being alone in the dorms and waiting for Harry's return so he can finish this, finish it as soon as possible and leave from this damned castle to finally set out on his journey, fulfil his purpose—it's driving him up the wall.

Of course when Harry _does _arrive in the middle of the night after what seems to have been quite the evening, dealing with the revelation of Black's innocence and all the _delightful _details Tom knows he'll find out tomorrow, he is too tired to have any sort of actual conversation. It goes along the lines of, "Hi Tom" — "I'll tell you everything in the morning" — "'Nigh' Tom" — before he practically passes out on the bed, not even having taken off his shoes.

Within seconds, Harry has sunken into complete sleep and Tom stands over him as if a ghost, observing the serene expression that has relaxed his facial features. This is the moment to do it. No more waiting. No more hiding. Finally, _finally_, freedom is near.

He can taste the liberty on his tongue as he silently sits down on the edge of the bed, looking down on this child he spent a year with, the child with the almost frightening potential. They call him _The Boy Who Lived_, they label him their saviour, the only one capable of defeating the Dark Lord. So why is it so easy for Tom to slide his hand onto the centre of his chest, feeling it rise and fall with his breaths, the cadences regular and quiet? Why is it so easy for him to set the boy's death in motion, the death of the supposed hero? It's almost _too_ easy, killing him.

Sensing their bond to start the last phase is child's play—all he has to do is pluck on its strings and make it sing. The core, the source of energy he hooked into last summer, is pulled. The boy sleeping on the bed stirs, but doesn't wake.

After this, he'll never wake.

Tom reels it in, feels it almost burning through his veins, but the more he consumes the more he feels something is wrong. Harry's breathing starts becoming laboured, and he's starting to sweat, as if having a nightmare.

He is not dying. Not at all. He looks to be more and more _alive_ the more Tom pulls.

How is this possible when he is certain that he's sucking the essence of the boy's life right out of his chest? He should be losing colour, his pulse should be weakening, his breathing should be growing quieter and softer and more shallow, until it finally stops, and yet the complete opposite is happening. Harry is even starting to groan.

How, how, _how_—

Then, there are flashes. Not of images, but knowledge. Memories and feelings and thoughts, fitting and clicking as if they were pieces of a puzzle he was missing without knowing it—and they are _his_. Most of it, it's him, Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle, it belongs to him. Some of it is Harry, but a shocking majority of it is _him_. Even the very last drop that is sucked out with a force that has Harry shaking and awakening in shock as if from a nightmare, sweating and disoriented, is originally his. It—whatever it is, whatever Tom has been draining from for all these months—has always belonged to him.

"Tom?" Harry whispers frantically, blinking and rubbing his eyes. "Tom, what just—what happened?"

Tom remains seated on the edge of the bed like a statue, heart thumping violently against his ribs as if attempting to break them, and stares down at his hand that is still burning. It feels as if someone sewed an open wound shut without anaesthetic; it's the forceful reattachment of a lost piece. His mind is frantic, his thoughts racing so fast he nearly loses himself in their chaos, watching Harry's lips form words but not hearing any of it.

He looks at the boy with the scar, the Parcelmouth, who shared a bond with him from the very beginning, the child that is held up by society to be Lord Voldemort's only worthy challenger even by Dumbledore himself.

The only threat.

The Killing Curse. Murder. A condition to creating—

When Lily Potter threw herself in front of her child—

The ward around Harry that then—

When the curse rebounded—

His hands are shaking.

Harry Potter—his Horcrux.

**ACT I END**


	8. Chapter Eight

**A/N: **Heavens, that is the most amount of reviews this story has ever gotten for a single chapter! Thank you all so much, and while I don't always reply to you individually, know that your support is invaluable and I love you for it! This next chapter is where things both slow down a bit and speed up in different ways. I hope you'll enjoy!

* * *

LITHIUM

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

Harry doesn't know what is happening anymore.

Within the span of a single day he has been drowned in a weight of revelations he never anticipated, and the consequences echo throughout the rest of the week, allowing him very little sleep.

Sirius Black, his father's best friend, assumed to be the Potters' Secret Keeper when they hid under the Fidelius Charm, assumed to have betrayed them, assumed to have murdered Peter Pettigrew and several innocent Muggles—innocent. All along. An innocent man, cast away into Azkaban _without a trial_, enduring the torment of Dementors _for twelve years_. He could've had a godfather, he could've had a parent, he could've been happy with his childhood had the Ministry, had society, not utterly failed in its duty to serve justice.

His stomach churns when he thinks about it, when he remembers Black's emaciated and miserable form that seemed so menacing and so vile when he'd first seen it, but now makes his heart ache and leaves the taste of nausea in the back of his throat.

At one time, perhaps, this revelation would've only inspired happiness, and he _is _happy that Black, with Pettigrew's Veritaserum-induced confession, will get his official trial and be cleared of all charges, but he is no longer quite the naïve child he used to be. Exposed to these failures of morality now, courtesy of Tom, it is impossible to un-see the ugly even amidst the beauty. There is no unadulterated elation; there are only equal amounts of disappointment, anger and joy.

He can barely recall the night of event when he thinks back on it. He remembers little things, like the Headmaster's hand on his shoulder as he guided him out of the Shack. The sporadic clenching of Snape's jaw during Black's explanation. The wrinkles on Lupin's face that seemed to have instantly deepened within those few hours. The shine on McGonagall's shoes as they stepped outside.

Tom's absence.

Granted, it hadn't been a little thing by itself, but compared to what was going on at the time it slipped Harry's attention completely. It wasn't until later that night, when Harry was woken in a most awful manner—his chest burning in a shock of pain, his scar feeling as if it were being cut open by a knife, his throat constricting by treacherous muscle—that Tom was added to the list of things that had collapsed on him in in the past several hours. Quite literally, in Tom's case.

Not only does Harry have the new knowledge of Black's innocence (his _godfather's _innocence—he has a _godfather_!) to process, something is wrong with Tom and he has no idea how to help. All he told Harry is that he decided to finalize the spell that had been feeding him power ever since they performed the small rite, and that it had failed in a near-catastrophic manner.

It has been a week and Tom hasn't come out of the diary ever since that night. Harry remembers him looking shaken in a way he'd never thought was even possible; Tom always keeps his composure, he always knows what to do, and he always has answers for practically any question Harry can think of. To see him nearly shell-shocked was deeply unsettling, and Harry wants to help, but he doesn't know how or where to start. Tom is extremely reluctant to let him offer his assistance in the first place. Whenever he asks, he's met with instant rejection that sometimes is almost icy in its finality, not that it will stop Harry from asking every other day.

Tom was there for him through the whole ordeal with the Dursleys and always had time to listen to Harry no matter how trivial his woes were. That's not even taking into account all the things he's taught him—Harry finally realizes, now that Tom is the one who needs help (although he is too proud to admit it), that he owes him far more than what he's been giving him. There is a sense of guilt and responsibility mixed with the concern; he feels that he's failed his friend in some way.

As for Tom's current condition, from what little information he gives away it almost sounds as if he's sick. The concept is hard for Harry to wrap his mind around; how can a _memory _suffer from illness?

"_It needs time to heal." _Tom wrote to him one morning, never clarifying what 'it' is. Perhaps it's more like a wound than an actual illness? But what could've caused the wound? Was it his fault? Tom assured him that it wasn't, but Harry stopped taking Tom's word on everything. While their bond is very faint now, Harry can still sense things from the diary, and the ripples of intense pain and frustration contradict every _"I'm fine" _Tom has said, and he's said at least seven of those in the past three days alone.

When Harry asked yesterday in particular if there was anything he could do (for what has to be the thirtieth time in a row), Tom turned him down in clipped tones and advised him to focus on matters with Black instead.

Speaking of which, the whole ordeal is being kept top secret by the Ministry for the moment, meaning that Harry is thankfully not being bombarded by questions and attention from his peers yet though it's only a matter of time. Black himself has been hospitalized in St. Mungo's, and considering his dreadful condition he won't be released for a month at the minimum.

Harry didn't have any time to talk to him as Dumbledore instructed McGonagall to take him and Ron straight back to the castle during the eve of incident, and that was the first and last time he saw Black. He is still planning on writing to him eventually, though he has no idea what to say. They are strangers, after all, and Harry isn't certain how… well, how much of his sanity Black has left.

Ron seems to be taking everything much better than Harry, considering his pet rat turned out to be a middle-aged man who indirectly murdered his best friend's parents, but then again, he was always more attached to "Scabbers" out of principle and not because he had any sort of emotional attachment.

"I let him sleep in my bed," Ron said with a horrified look when they got to the infirmary after the whole ordeal. "He saw me _naked_!"

Harry sympathizes, but his shock has been a bit more severe, all things considered—and the surprises haven't ended yet.

Since the exams have been finished, there are very few classes left for them to attend. The ones that continue, the core classes, mostly prepare them for next year. Between worrying about Black and worrying about Tom, Harry eventually notices that DADA has suddenly dropped off his schedule on the notice board in the common room; he decides to pay Professor Lupin a visit, exactly a week after Pettigrew's arrest.

When he gets to the classroom on the third floor, aside from the tables and chairs, it has been completely emptied of Lupin's possessions. The man himself sits at his desk, arranging papers and stuffing some of them in his suitcase, looking more worn out than ever. The bags underneath his eyes have become more prominent, and Harry swears he has more grey hair now than he did at the start of the year.

"Professor?" Harry walks up to his desk, finally catching Lupin's attention, who smiles faintly at the sight of him. There's something glum about it.

"Harry," He looks tired. "Come to give your old teacher a farewell visit?"

"Farewell visit?" Harry looks around the room once more, the emptiness of it finally sinking in. "Are you-are you _leaving_?"

"Yes, unfortunately I won't be returning next year." Lupin says with a weary sigh, picking up where he left off and tucking an old dossier into his bag. "It's for health reasons, mostly, but…."

"But what?" Harry frowns, and while he understands where the health-concern might have come from, he isn't thrilled to know of Lupin's resignation. "Sir, you're the best teacher we've had for this subject, if there's any way I can convince you to—"

"It's also because of Sirius." Lupin cuts him off gently, and he feels the words die on his tongue. "I visited him in St. Mungo's last night. Physically he's making a remarkable recovery, but psychologically, he needs more time. The Headmaster thought it would help him if he had a familiar face around; he was in Azkaban for twelve years, it's a miracle he's coherent at all."

Harry doesn't know what to say. He suddenly feels a very weighty sensation of guilt for not having written that letter yet, but every time he sits down to do it he blanks. "How is he?"

"He has frequent nightmares," Lupin answers gravely. "And sometimes, I think he forgets where he is. Loses his sense of time, so to speak, but it doesn't happen all that often. For the most part, he's doing quite alright, considering…" He doesn't finish that sentence, a dark look passing on his features that makes him look a decade older, before he changes the topic to something more light-hearted. "He asked about you."

"Oh." Harry looks away, feeling somewhat embarrassed. He hadn't expected Black to show interest—sure, legally he was Harry's godfather, but after all those years he thought Black would care more about his newly found freedom than some old obligation.

"We both agree that you're almost an exact replica of your father. He watched you play Quidditch a few times while he roamed about the school grounds, as well. You left quite an impression on him."

The dog. Harry remembers it—lightning flashing, and the silhouette of a large dog at the top row of the stands. He can't believe Sirius suffered through that horrible weather just to watch him play. Tentatively, he asks, or _tries _to ask, "Would he… would it be okay if…"

"Do you want to visit him?" Lupin offers helpfully, perhaps sensing Harry's discomfort. "I'll be going to St. Mungo's quite frequently during summer vacation. I could take you with me, if you'd like."

Harry smiles, relieved as he doesn't have to put things into words. He's never been good with that. "Yeah, I'd like that." Talking to Sirius in person would be much easier than writing him something, anyway. He parts his lips to ask his now former teacher another thing, but thinks better of it at the last second and instead says he has to get to the Library, having arranged to meet up with Hermione there in the morning.

He's been pushing his luck, anyway. Even if Sirius is technically his legal guardian now, Harry doesn't expect him to want to take care of some kid he doesn't even know. It's probably best if he spares no further thought and energy into hoping.

Before Harry leaves for the Library, Lupin advises him (rather astutely) that if Harry was planning on sending him a letter, he best do it soon and resist the urge to procrastinate. It won't take an owl longer than two days' worth of journey to get to St. Mungo's, so he'll be guaranteed to have a frequent correspondence with Sirius before he can visit. It might make things significantly less awkward.

That's one problem solved, then, even though he still isn't happy to hear that Lupin won't be returning next year. Who knows what kind of mental person or incompetent fraud would be hired? Maybe a sadistic git like Snape? Or perhaps, god forbid, Snape _himself_?

Harry heads to the Library after that little chat, having mixed feelings on the whole thing, and pondering what to put in his letter to Sirius. How was he even supposed to address him? Dear Mr. Black? That was too formal. But 'Dear Sirius' just sounded too _awkward_. Harry didn't even have a proper conversation with the man aside from the whole 'I'm-going-to-murder-your-friend's-rat' thing, which wasn't the best precursor to an amicable relationship.

Hermione would know. He quickens his pace to the Library, nearly bumping into several students who were loitering in the corridors. Hermione would know how to write a good letter, and she would know how to handle Harry's _other _problem. Tom's condition.

He isn't planning on revealing everything to her, but just to prod her a bit for information. Tom never did mention what kind of spell or ritual or whatever it's called had created him. There has to be some name for putting your memory into an object, hasn't there?

When he gets to the Library which is nearly devoid of other students, he sees Hermione already perusing the bookshelves for something quick to read before the year is up. They have two weeks left, which makes Hermione's behaviour even more baffling to Harry as he can't imagine how you can read through any of the thick books she's partial to within fourteen days.

"Hiya, Hermione."

She turns away from a dusty shelf in the _History _Section, and smiles brightly as Harry approaches. "Hi, Harry—have you seen Ron around? He borrowed my Charms book but I haven't gotten it back yet."

Harry shrugs. "Last I saw him he was in the Great Hall, stuffing his face with cupcakes. What are you looking at?"

"Oh, nothing important," she replies idly, putting back a red hard-cover book with a broomstick engraved on it. "With the Quidditch World Cup Final being held this summer, I thought I should read up on some history."

Harry had completely forgotten about that, as well as Quidditch in general, in all honesty. "Right, do we know the finalists yet?" Hermione looks at him as if he's mad for not knowing, and maybe she has a point in that, considering him being a Seeker.

"No, there's still the semi-finals."

Before she can fill his head with a whole plethora of new information concerning the Quidditch World Cup Harry decides to change the subject, not all that interested in hearing about international tournaments at the moment. "Right. Anyway, er, I was hoping you could help me with something."

"Sure, what's it about?"

"Well, two things, actually. I need to write a letter," He pauses, taking in Hermione's concerned look. She seems to already know. "It's to Sirius, and I'm not sure how to go about it. I need some advice."

The two of them pick out an empty table to sit at near the windows in between two large book cases. The Library is pleasantly still, the many dust particles floating in the air being highlighted by golden sunlight, giving a tranquil atmosphere to the place.

"I suppose you're not sure how to address him?" Hermione guesses, continuing after receiving a nod. "It's hard for me to say, really. I haven't met him so I don't know how he… feels about you. He _is _your godfather, but would he consider…?"

"I don't know," Harry admits, arms crossed on the table. "I spoke to Lupin and he said Sirius asked about me. I-I think he's alright with me, anyway."

"I wouldn't make it formal, then. As long as you know what you want to tell him, write however you want to. I'm sure it'll get the message across either way." At Harry's silence, she reaches over and puts her hand on his wrist in a gesture of comfort, her eyes soft when they meet his. "Whatever you write, I'm sure he'll be pleased with it."

Feeling a bit less anxious with that reassurance, Harry relaxes slightly. "Thanks, Mione." The amount of times he would've been screwed without her help—Ron as well, for that matter.

"Now, that's one thing taken care of. Was there something else? You did mention _two _things you needed my help with."

"Well, er," Here is the tricky part. "It's more hypothetical than anything else. I read something about storing memories into objects—in the newspaper—which sounds pretty useful, but the, um, the article didn't mention how it worked, exactly."

Hermione hums thoughtfully. There's a bit of a sceptic look to her, which means Harry is already in hot water, but she also looks contemplative. After a few seconds of silence, she finally replies. "All I can think of is a Pensieve, but I don't think that's what you meant."

"No, not like a Pensieve," Harry confirms.

They discussed things like the Pensieve during Ancient Runes—the metal basin used to keep memories in storage is typically carved with dozens of symbols which they all had to identify during their exam as one of the questions.

Harry fared surprisingly well with that, or perhaps not so surprisingly, since he found it quite interesting how runes could enchant any object and how diverse said enchantments were. Aside from the Pensieve, you could even use runes to enchant your belongings into self-destruction or disappearing at the touch of anyone other than yourself.

"So just solid objects? I've never heard of that before. Are you sure you read it right?" Hermione questions with furrowed eyebrows, starting to grow suspicious.

"Yes, I'm sure. We should look around the Library, I'm sure it has to be written here _somewhere_." Harry insists, and at the mention of a Library-search, Hermione instantly perks up.

"Alright then, follow me! I'm sure it's in the _Mind-Related Magic_ Section."

They end up scouring the Section for almost an hour without finding anything of value. Most books that concern memories in particular are few and far in between, and mostly discuss things like the Pensieve, or otherwise memory-altering magic such as memory charms. Harry starts growing more frustrated, and he and Hermione almost give up looking until he notices a very old, very thin and quite small book wedged in between two larger ones, titled simply, '_Memory & Mind: The Basics' _by Imelda Funks.

Harry doubts he'll find anything substantial in there, especially seeing how beaten up the simple, dark blue cover of the little book is, but he figures it's worth flipping through just in case. He soon finds that it seems to be an instruction manual more than anything else, but it provides him a very important hint.

In a paragraph going into the storage of memories, it reads:

"_If one were to make any such attempt, be advised that the extraction of the targeted memories must be executed with EXTREME CAUTION! Much like with soul magic, if you were to end up losing these memories, or worse yet, have them destroyed, retrieval is impossible and loss is permanent!"_

He is suddenly reminded of what Tom once said to him when they first met, and Harry asked him what he was.

"_I am part of a person, created by magic." _

Perhaps not entirely just a memory. Perhaps really, a part of someone's soul? But is that even possible? Harry doesn't really know how you would just rip a piece of your soul out and stuff it in a notebook, but it makes more sense than Tom being just a memory, now he considers it. Would a memory have so much free will, a mind of its own? A consciousness?

"Harry? Did you find something?" Hermione inquires while balancing a stack of books in one hand as she puts them back on the shelf one by one.

Harry puts the manual away and quickly walks over to help. "Sort of. I think we might have been looking in the wrong section." he replies, taking a few books off her and putting them back without looking, which earns him a glare from Hermione who hands him the rest of the books while she neatly rearranges the ones he put away in alphabetical order.

"What do you mean?" she asks firmly, continuing her task until all the books are back in the case.

"It might not have been just a memory you put into an object, but your soul—part of your soul, anyhow. Is that possible?"

Hermione's brows arch, before they sink back down again in a little frown. "I'm not sure, but that sounds like dark magic, Harry. Your soul isn't meant to be toyed around with, let alone split into pieces!"

"Could we go look for it all the same?"

She sighs, seeming to relent at first. "That type of book could only be found in the Restricted Section, and I'm not sorry to say that I won't be going in there any time soon."

"That's fine," Harry says with a shrug, glancing over to Madam Pince, the overseer of the Library who seems to be much too busy perusing an edition of the _Daily Prophet_ and glancing at a few students close to her to pay attention to them. He reaches down to his bag which he'd lowered down to the floor during their search, pulling out his Invisibility Cloak. "I'll go look for it myself."

"Harry, that's—" Hermione scowls at him, but she knows she won't be changing his mind. While she doesn't exactly mind use of the Restricted Section in general, it has to only be when _needed_. As far as she knows, Harry is just doing this on a whim, and she disapproves of that heavily considering there are quite a number of dangerous books there. "Fine, go look for it then, _on your own_. I'll be sitting here, reading my book." she huffs, returning to their table and picking up the Quidditch World Cup History book she'd been looking at earlier. "And be careful." she adds sternly as Harry quickly slips on his Cloak while hiding behind a book case.

Unfortunately, this search proves to be entirely fruitless. He found a number of books on soul magic, though most of it seems to pertain to Necromancy. It left him with the theory that Tom might have been the spirit of a dead person summoned into the diary, though that didn't fit with the fact that Tom is just _part _of a soul. No books on Necromancy discussed the possibility of splitting one's spirit.

When he returns out of the Restricted Section unnoticed, and relays his unproductive research to Hermione, she sinks into thought once again.

"Perhaps the subject was considered too dangerous for Hogwarts students." she surmises eventually. "In which case, you had better just give up on it, Harry. Nothing good can come out of it."

Harry admits defeat at this, and spends the rest of the afternoon allowing Hermione to fill his head with Quidditch facts and trivia.

He supposes he'll just ask Tom directly when he gets the chance.

* * *

The healing process is excruciating.

Tom's awareness of time, of _anything_, really, has diminished; his entire being aches, like nerves underneath skin having been set on fire. Rational thought and rumination is difficult, but it is also his only distraction from the impossible agony.

In theory, the creation of a Horcrux can only be reconciled by experiencing a profound sense of remorse and repentance—neither of which Tom has felt to prompt this healing process in the first place, but his situation is unique. Uncharted territory.

No one ever attempted the creation of multiple Horcruxes, so he couldn't have foreseen this turn of events when he accidentally absorbed _his own Horcrux_. Him being the first Horcrux his original created left him with a sense of self and magic that he suspects his other Horcruxes don't have. His distinct characteristic of being able to siphon someone's life force to himself has unexpectedly turned out to be another way to reconcile a Horcrux.

While it is quite the discovery, there are numerous questions he needs answers for.

Harry Potter was his Horcrux, and while the creation was unintended (though that has been rectified now, which is the only good thing about this entire situation, Tom decides), why was his original out to murder an_ infant_ in the first place?

It is a question he should've asked sooner, but he always supposed that his original had attempted to kill Harry as an afterthought—eliminating a future threat, so to speak, after taking out the actual threats, James and Lily Potter. From the memories he received from this Horcrux, on that Halloween night when Lord Voldemort walked up the small garden path leading up to the Potters' front door, he arrived with his _main target_ being Harry. A small child barely a year old.

Why? Tom can pluck out some things about a prophecy or whatnot amidst the memories, but it sounds so utterly insane that he can hardly believe it happened the way it did. Divination and most of its properties are complete rubbish—prophecies have no power on its subjects whatsoever as long as you don't believe in them, and Tom certainly doesn't. No sane man can lend merit to the ramblings of a possibly possessed person, and there are numerous accounts over the ages of prophecies being conquered, prevented and otherwise dispelled by the mere factor of chance or otherwise disbelief.

While Tom considers himself unaffected by such things as society-dictated morals, the murder of a child over some vague foretelling that depended entirely on choice sounds like the doing of a madman, a paranoid mental patient belonging in St. Mungo's. It sounds pathetic. It sounds revolting.

It sounds wrong.

This is something else that has been worrying, to say the least. During this healing process, Tom has noticed a subtle change within him he isn't sure is beneficial. Whenever he revisits that memory that shows the murder of the Potters, when he watches Lily Potter plead and beg for her child's life, witnesses her die in front of her son, a small child that watches with big green eyes as his mother collapses, his initial reaction to it is different than what it is _usually_.

Maybe it is circumstance and context, but it doesn't feel right, it doesn't feel what he's used to. The sense of pity, of something weighty and heavy and a sort of lingering twinge in his chest, is something new. It doesn't belong to him, he knows this with certainty. When he saw Myrtle's corpse being carried away by Ministry officials, he felt detached, as he had considered it his duty. After murdering Tom Riddle Sr. and his parents, he felt a lingering disgust and scorn, as he had considered it his retribution.

Why does he feel something so different _now_? Even if the attempted murder on Harry was ridiculous, the elimination of the Potter couple had been entirely just; they were skilled Aurors, and a serious threat to the Dark Lord. Yet when he watches it, replays the scene over and over, that troublesome sensation of wrongness remains.

It has to be the influence of the Harry-Horcrux.

As far as Tom knows, no one has ever made another person their Horcrux, so this is pure speculation on his part, but it seems obvious that housing a part of your soul into someone would have consequences—both for the person in question, as well as the Horcrux. As much as the Horcrux has affected Harry, it seems Harry has affected the Horcrux as well, and now with Tom having absorbed it, he is suffering through the forceful changes and consequences.

It is not only an agony in the more physical sense of the word, but on a psychological level as well. He knows better than to resist it (that would mean tearing himself apart) but that does not mean he's comfortable with it; he has no choice but to let it happen.

As far as interacting with Harry goes, he has kept it at a minimum, and plans on keeping it at a minimum until the pain subsides and he is in a state where he can plan his next move, considering his original scheme failed.

Unfortunately, Harry has other thoughts.

Tom hasn't a clue _what _the boy has been busy with that particular afternoon, but when he returns in the evening he practically interrogates the suffering Horcrux on his origins.

"_You never told me about how you were created. Was it Necromancy, or something like that?"_

At least Harry was being creative about it. _"No. It was through old magic that only very few people know of, and even fewer practice." _

"_What's it called?" _

Tom has no interest in this right now. The aching he's sitting through has shortened his patience significantly, and he isn't as amiable or charming as he usually is. _"You needn't concern yourself with it, Harry. It is dangerous in the hands of the inexperienced." _

There is a slight pause, followed by a very perceptive, _"You're not _just _a memory, are you?" _

Blast it. His own teachings have come back to bite him.

"_Does it matter what I am?" _he responds tersely. _"There's nothing you can do about my condition, I've already told you this several times before. It will heal on its own." _

"_You keep saying that, but you won't even come out of the diary anymore. That's how bad it is, isn't it?"_

"_Harry, let it go." _

"_Why did you create this diary in the first place? I asked Hermione and she said it was a dangerous sort of magic—I couldn't even find anything about it in the Restricted Section. Why—" _

"_**Enough**__." _His agitation bristles off the diary in palpable waves, and he can sense Harry's shock to the sudden retort which gives him a little satisfaction, but not enough to pacify him. He supposes this was inevitable. Harry has always been quite curious, and he would've asked these questions eventually. Tom teaching him to value his curiosity and think critically merely made it to be sooner, rather than later.

"_I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you." _Harry pens down carefully, his remorse obvious. _"I've just been worried, and I wanted to help."_

His natural reaction is to scoff at it, but he has long grown used to Harry's sentimentality, and his ever-present need to aid his friends in any way he can. It is one of his innate characteristics, and while it has been a cause for irritation on numerous occasions, Tom muses that Harry simply wouldn't be the same without those qualities, and forgives him for the trespass.

"_I understand, but trust me when I say there is nothing to be done. We must simply wait." _He's starting to tire of the conversation, regardless. _"I must rest now, Harry. Try to enjoy your last weeks at Hogwarts." _

The diary shuts itself closed, and isn't opened again for the next two weeks.


	9. Chapter Nine

**A/N:** I'm starting to wonder how most of you interpret the title of this story. 'Lithium' is a very pretty word, but I assure you it's not the reason I chose it. Let's see how many of you will be able to figure it out! Also, small OC-appearance near the end here. She'll be showing up every now and then in the story so feel free to tell me what you think! Enjoy the chapter!

* * *

LITHIUM

**CHAPTER NINE**

_Dear Sirius,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I should've written to you sooner but I didn't really know what to say. Everything's been pretty hectic for the past few days. I can't imagine how you're feeling._

_I spoke to Professor Lupin (I should call him Remus now, though, since he resigned) and he offered to take me with him to St. Mungo's during the summer so I could visit, if that's alright with you. _

_It's funny, just a few months ago I hated your guts, and that's without even knowing the rumours about the thing with my parents. You know you almost got Quidditch cancelled, right? And I ran into Dementors a few times, too. Nasty things, but at least I got to learn how to cast a Patronus. Also, that night you scared the lights out of Ron, we ended up sleeping in the Great Hall. It was really uncomfortable. Looking back on it, I'm actually relieved you never managed to kill Pettigrew. If you had, you'd never be able to prove your innocence. _

_Anyway, I heard from Remus that your recovery is going well. I hope you'll be able to leave St. Mungo's soon. The year's ending in two weeks so that's when I'll be able to come see you. I heard Pettigrew's trial will only be held once you're discharged and healthy enough to give your testimony. Why did they never give you your trial, anyway? _

_Aside from having to process this whole thing, everything's going well on my end for the most part. I can't wait till summer starts and I can leave all this behind me. _

_I hope to hear from you soon._

_Take care,_

_Harry_

* * *

It's so quiet. The sounds of his memories are too poor an imitation to keep him appeased when he can see the foundation of empires he once built inside his mind turning into pillars of salt. There's an ache that beats in sync with his heart. Temples of self-worship, of promise, of ambition, reduced to rubble by the gentlest whispers from a voice he knows almost as well as his own, a voice he loathes.

'_Why, Tom? Why go this far?'_

It drives him to the edges of sanity, making him tip-toe the line like an acrobat in a circus performance—that's what his thoughts have turned into. It's a carnival of madness playing out inside his head. Seeds of doubt that are scattered now around his garden. His memories contort into nightmares, as he stares at a reflection of himself opening the door of Riddle House.

'_What are you doing it for?'_

He watches him slip inside, and only seconds later, a faded colour of green flashes through the windows, the sound of lifeless bodies hitting the floorboards as sharp as a guillotine. For the first time, he wonders why he did it.

'_When will you be sated?'_

Tearing through the obstacles in front of him, he never turned to look what he left behind him. Never cared to. The whispers know this. They know of the inevitable monster that lurks at the top of this mountain of corpses he's built and is climbing. What's at the top? He's been so busy climbing he never stopped to ask himself what's at the top.

'_When will it end?' _

He hasn't looked at his newly acquired memories yet. The only one he glimpsed at is the one of Godric's Hollow, of the Potters' murder. He looks at that one often, watches himself with the intensity of a hawk—not eyeing prey, but staring at a threat so much greater than himself. That cold, high laughter, is that his? That agonized scream when it all falls apart, is that him? Is that Tom Riddle?

'_What is left?'_

No, not Tom Riddle. That is a name he always was so eager to cast aside, trade in for the title of Lord Voldemort; the persona, the _fantasy _he sacrificed everything to become, not caring to know the consequences. He did become it, in the end. He made the Horcruxes, attained immortality, ruled as the greatest dark wizard in history, so why can't he look at the victories he will no doubt find in these new memories? Why can he not open that door? Why does his hand shake and his skin crawl every time he wraps his fingers around the doorknob?

'_Is this what you wanted?'_

Maybe it's because, unlike Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle isn't blinded by greed and apathetic about the demons he creates, overlooking the self-mutilation, oblivious of the pointlessness of it all.

Tom Riddle knows very well that something terrible awaits him behind that door.

'_Open it.'_

Something that will devour him and spit him out into pieces, as it did with his original.

'_Open the door, Tom. Look at what you will become, what you _have _become.'_

He doesn't want to see it. He wants to imagine a golden throne, endless glory, the downfall of death. He wants the fantasy to live on. He does not want to face the reality in those memories.

'_You should've known, my dear boy, that nothing comes without a price.'_

The voice is a figment of his own psyche, he knows, one that has infected and twisted and turned his conscience into something else. An inner ego that now suddenly cares once more to save his soul, or whatever is left of it. He hasn't heard it speak to him like this since that rainy day in the orphanage when his wardrobe burned with his sins—hasn't heard such a tender pity in years.

_'You should've known.'_

The door rattles. The monster knocks on wood oh so politely.

"Why don't you let me in, Tom?" it says softly, and he can hear the smile in its voice. "I'll show you all that we've accomplished, all that we've conquered. Isn't that what we always wanted?"

'_I think there's something trying to get out, Tom.' _

Shut up. I won't fall for it.

"Come now, don't be shy."

'_Open the door.'_

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

"Let me in, Tom."

'_Open the door, Tom.' _

SHUT UP, YOU SENILE OLD MAN, _SHUT UP_.

"Tom," the monster hisses now, starting to grow impatient. "Let me in _this_ _instant_."

It's going to kill him, tear its claws into him, rip him to pieces and reassemble him from the base up. He'll be as good as dead.

'_You're strong enough,' _whispers another voice, and he sees green eyes flash with admiration, with the sort of trust even he cannot question. _'You can do it. You can overcome it. Open the door.' _

"Let me in!" the monster starts screaming at him, banging on the wood with the ferocity of a starved animal. "Listen to _me_, you foolish boy! Listen to me and let me in!"

_'Open the door.'_

"LET ME IN!"

_'Open the door and face it.'_

"TOM!"

_'But don't you dare let it in.'_

"_LISTEN TO ME_!"

It is neither bravery nor valour that makes him act, but a desire to make the cacophony of voices cease. He has to do something to make it stop, has to confront it eventually, and it has come to the point where ignoring it will only make it fester and grow, digging its roots further in.

With no other choice left, his fingers clench around the doorknob, his wrist twists, and he tears it open.

* * *

_Dear Harry,_

_Please try to tolerate the messy handwriting. The medicine has made my hand a bit unsteady, and I'm impatient to get you this response as soon as possible._

_First, let me apologize, though I know nothing I can say now will ever be enough to make up for it. After your parents died, I admit, I wasn't thinking clearly. All I wanted at the time was to make Pettigrew pay. I gave you up and abandoned you when I should've fought to keep you with me. If I hadn't let my impulses get the better of me, you wouldn't have had to suffer through such a miserable childhood (if it helps any, I found out from Remus first, not from the giant Daily Prophet cover this morning—_The Boy Who Endured: Harry Potter's Tragic Childhood_, one of the more ridiculous titles I've seen in a while). But, I know nothing I can say could set it right, so I won't ask for your forgiveness. _

_To have you visit over the summer would be more than I deserve. Strapped to a hospital bed I've had some time to mull things over, and while my therapist is a complete shrew, she knows what she's talking about half the time. I'll be fit for release in about three weeks, and while I know this isn't a topic properly discussed through letters, I want to make up for my absence during the past twelve years. I've heard about the Minister's comments that they're looking into several options for your new home, and I can't say I like it. Once I've been discharged, I'm planning to reinstate my status as your legal guardian (as I'm sure the Ministry has buried that piece of paperwork by now), if you'll still have me. _

_I'm glad you're doing well. Sorry about the Quidditch thing, I think I gave you quite the scare during your match against Slytherin, but I had to watch you play. I trust the broom I sent you has been treating you well? I wasn't able to see much of your other matches, being constantly on the run and all. Thank your friend, Hermione Granger, for me as well. Her cat was a great help during the past few months. And give my apologies to your other friend, Ron Weasley, was it? I never meant for him to see me, but I was a bit delirious at the time._

_As far as the trial goes, everything is being kept very hush-hush by the Ministry so far, though I have no doubt it's all going to leak somewhere this week. The Ministry has always been incompetent when it comes to keeping secrets, or holding a fair trial, for that matter._

_At the time Dumbledore tried to persuade the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (Bartemius Crouch Sr.) to at least interrogate me. Crouch didn't listen, didn't even let me take Veritaserum. He thought I'd be able to resist it somehow and lie anyway, convinced I was some sort of high-ranking Death Eater who'd been trying to avenge Voldemort. Then again, all the evidence was pretty incriminating at the time and people had gotten paranoid thanks to the First Wizarding War. _

_It's all in the past now, though. I'm a free man again and this time I'll make sure to set things right. _

_I'm looking forward to your visits._

_Cheers,_

_Sirius._

* * *

There's a sort of throbbing sensation in his wounds. It doesn't ache, but it feels unpleasant. There are fresh stitches on his skin. A needle tugging a string through his flesh, slowly sealing it all back up. Now there are only scars.

The monster in the wardrobe is gone.

For a while, it was like the splitting of atoms inside his veins. Small universes of perceived realities ripped apart and formed into something new, vestiges of supposed truths shattered in the process, war cracking his bones, stars blurring and suns bleeding. What remains as the numbness settles mercifully on his worn nerves, is something even beyond _his _comprehension.

Perhaps, the accurate phrasing is that he feels reborn.

This is the end of it all. The agony he'd felt before, in the very beginning of this healing process, is nothing compared to the psychological torment he barely clawed his way out of. The Horcrux that resided within Harry brought with it a part of the boy, a small sliver of influence, like a souvenir. Once Tom successfully absorbed that, all that remained were the gruesome horrors of Lord Voldemort's past reign.

It tried to fight him for dominance. Devour him, in a sort of cannibalistic frenzy. Their personalities were different, after all—one had to submit to the other.

Tom pulled through it. He doesn't know how, or maybe doesn't want to admit that he knows how. In the face of that monstrosity, confronted with memories that inspire nothing but disgust (senseless massacres and torture, reckless acts fuelled by nothing but emotion, a madman that has lost sight of all his goals, pointless, pointless, _pointless_) he almost lost himself to the temptation of power. Seductive whispers of absolute supremacy threatened to drag him down, and yet, he managed to overcome it—clinging subconsciously, perhaps, to the image of green eyes.

How much will this change, if anything at all? Lord Voldemort is lost. Tom is in a partial state of bewilderment, still adjusting to the changes that have set in within his psyche. What path should he take from this point on?

The answer isn't one he has to think on for very long; he must put himself back on the right track. Clearly Lord Voldemort has changed, the young man that once only acted on cold, hard logic and ruthless rationale turned into a travesty of wasted potential, ruled by his shortcomings. Tom must guide him back to where they began.

Ultimately, the long-term goal remains to join his original's side, though it will be difficult tracking him down with Tom still being bound to the diary. He briefly toys with the idea of using the Malfoy boy to get in contact with his father—a supposed Death Eater. Either way, it can wait. As frustrating as this latest setback has been, having sucked in the other Horcrux now he feels much closer to his full power than he did before.

He's been in the diary for fifty years, a few more months or even a few more years won't hurt him, but what will he do about Harry Potter?

Their bond, established through the blood rite, is still intact. If he so wishes, Tom can start sucking away at Harry's magic again, and this time he won't be accidentally pulling in his own Horcrux. Yes, certainly the more reasonable thing to do is to continue his original plan and make sure the boy dies this time?

No, no, that won't do. Harry's blood is a necessity, he tells himself. It must be used in the ritual to create a proper body for Lord Voldemort, otherwise his mother's protection won't allow Lord Voldemort to touch him, to harm him in the slightest. Tom has only been able to touch him so far because of their own small blood rite which Harry agreed to completely unwittingly at the time. He already has Harry's blood within him, but Lord Voldemort does not.

It has nothing to do with attachment on his part. These are not excuses or justifications. He's not avoiding the matter. It is a perfectly reasonable decision to spare the child for now—he forms no real threat to them as of yet.

He isn't reluctant to kill him. He wouldn't regret killing him. He can kill him whenever he so wishes.

"_So why don't you?"_

Tom grits his teeth and the diary shakes as Dumbledore's voice taunts him.

"_You've changed, Tom. You're no longer as callous as you'd like to believe. Eventually…"_

Don't you dare insinuate—

"_Far be it from me to insinuate anything; I was merely observing the obvious. It is my favourite pastime."_

Which ungodly pit of my subconscious did you crawl out of? I must be a masochist to inflict this kind of torture upon myself. You shouldn't have survived the healing process, you were meant to be a temporary symptom of delirium, something that should've gone away once I overcame the other Horcrux. How is this possible? It has to be some sort of auditory hallucination—

"_Interesting you should mention that. I, myself, think you have larger concerns than hearing imaginary voices in your head, however, such as the austerity of this place. It would do much better with some colour." _

Be quiet, I can't hear myself think with you blabbering in the background.

"_Oh, Tom," _A sigh. _"You always did love the sound of your own voice too much for your own good."_

I don't remember Dumbledore being this snide.

"_Apparently that's what you imagine him, or me, to speak like, and so here we are. Back to the topic of your internal landscape; might I suggest some decoration to liven it up a bit? Floral patterns on the wall would be lovely, don't you think?"_

There must be some way to silence you. I cannot be expected to function when I have the voice of a unhinged elderly person drivelling on inside my head.

"_If you just listen to my advice, Tom, you will never have to hear from me again." _Before he can even ask what the old man is on about, Dumbledore's light-hearted tone vanishes as he says gravely,_ "Don't return to him." _Tom starts seeing red.

You _dare_—

"_He cares nothing for you, he cares nothing for anything. He has been reduced to an empty shell, blind and unfeeling. You are nothing but a safety measure to him. Don't return to him, Tom."_

This is insanity, we are the same person, you are not allowed—you shouldn't be _capable_—of disagreement!

"_You've been lying to yourself, Tom. Lying to us. What did you think would happen?" _The voice changes like the tuning of a radio, though he can't quite make out whose voice is speaking to him now. _"You've created two realities inside your mind—one you know, but chose to forget." _Shards of broken liquor bottles. Torn pages of his favourite book. Incessant chanting timed with skipping rope on the playground. He recognizes the voice now; the sound of prophesied death. The rope coils around his neck and he suffocates. _"The other is your sanctuary. A safe haven built on lies."_

You know nothing, you've seen nothing, you are just a hallucination, nothing you say has any meaning—

"_You've always been a coward, Tom." _

Green eyes flash in the dark.

"…_**neither can live while the other survives…"**_

Before Tom can begin to process what has just happened, he feels the touch of another's hand on the leather cover of his book that snaps him out of madness. The diary has been trembling due to his inner mayhem and has now finally been noticed.

He is sure to keep it sealed shut, disinclined to allow anyone access to the pages when he's in such a vulnerable state—especially when it's Harry.

Focusing what energy he has on the outside, he feels a wave of discontentment radiating off the boy, buried under a heavy layer of previous excitement. Harry is in a good mood; not being able to figure out why comes as a great annoyance to Tom. He waits to see if Harry will try to open the diary, but for several seconds all he does is simply hold it with the tips of his fingers. The voices have stopped.

He feels the happy aura dissipate, making way for more glum, stormy thoughts, tinged by longing. Does Harry miss him? Miss talking to him, rather? It has been two weeks—that's unquestionably the longest time they've gone without speaking to each other.

"Still not better yet, Tom?"

Tom stays quiet. He could very easily snap the diary open and tell the boy that the worst is over with, but as the saying goes, absence makes the heart grow fonder. He can very well exploit this.

(Of course he ignores that this saying applies both ways.)

Harry's hands linger for a moment longer on the diary before it's put down somewhere and released. The leather feels cold, and the space within the journal feels oddly empty.

_"You enjoy his company," _Dumbledore's voice returns as if nothing at all has happened, noting his observation with amusement. _"I never thought_—"

He does his best to ignore the voice. It drones on ceaselessly, allowing him precious little rest for thought, not that he needs to do any pondering at this point. He'd rather not dwell on whatever happened just now—he might be going insane, but he'll deal with it later. As long as his power or intelligence doesn't start degrading, he can just shut his mind off from his screaming conscience and brush it aside. The more pressing matter is what he'll do in regards to the long-term.

The only possible action he can take after his stalling tactic is to open the diary once more and talk to Harry, but for some reason, he feels... unnerved by the thought of it.

Tom is not the same anymore. There's a loaded, thick sensation in his chest which must be anxiety, though he cannot say what the cause is. He feels off-balance; how will this affect him when he attempts to resume his subtle manipulations on the boy? He does not know, and not knowing isn't something he's used to.

He cannot allow an attachment to be developed, but what if, _what if_—

"_What I'd like to know, Tom," _Dumbledore interrupts kindly, _"is why you think you can prevent an attachment from being developed, when there's already one there?" _

Tom is silent.

* * *

"This way, Harry," Remus guides him through the sterile white corridor, avoiding Healers that are running around in a hurry, moving out of the way of patients walking around, managing not to get in the way of other visitors who seem either grim, content or utterly distraught. Harry is briefly distracted by a young woman who starts going into hysterics as a Healer talks to her, collapsing on the floor in tears.

They move around the unfortunate lady, turning around the corner. St. Mungo's is much larger than any hospital Harry's ever seen, and he's had to visit quite a few times in Little Whinging. The Muggle hospital there hadn't been _nearly _as busy and large as this one—and filled with machinery, in some rooms. Here he glimpses rooms that are filled with bottles, potions, steaming cauldrons, books, and glass cases filled with all sorts of ingredients.

"Nervous?" Remus asks him as they head up a floor through the stairs. He doesn't look as tired as he did two weeks ago, but still not entirely healthy. If nothing else, he seems a bit happier, a bit more light on his feet.

"A bit," Harry concedes, trying not to fidget too much. He and Sirius have been exchanging letters frequently. That first response from his godfather was a bit embarrassing for him at the time. He was sitting at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall when Hedwig flew in and dropped the letter into his hands.

Harry wears his heart on his sleeve, so to read that there's someone out there that actually wants him, wants to take care of him and be the parent he never had—well, he was forced to use the I-got-something-in-my-eye excuse when Ron noticed his eyes getting watery.

From that point on he was much more uninhibited in his interaction with Sirius, his letters becoming so long his fingers started cramping by the end of them. Sirius always responded in kind, though his tended to be a little bit shorter as Harry filled him in on everything he missed so far. And now they're going to meet, face to face. He's anxious, but excited, though he doesn't know what to expect. For the past few days, the image of Sirius was one of a gaunt, almost frail looking man with a manic glint in his eyes. He wonders how much three weeks have changed the man.

Remus leads him to a door near the end of the corridor, where it's more empty than the rest of the hallways. He knocks, and a moment later, the door is opened.

It's not Sirius—it's a young woman with thick, dark brown hair tied in a bun atop her head, her light green eyes a striking contrast to her darker skin that's covered in freckles. She's tall, her posture almost stately, though she looks frustrated.

"Hello, Remus," she greets him curtly, rolling up the sleeves of her blouse before looking to the boy standing next to him. "You must be Harry. I'm Alouette Bouvier, but just call me Lou." There's a distinct French accent there when she pronounces her name.

Harry supposes this must be Sirius' therapist, then. He shakes the hand she extends to him and almost yelps at the surprisingly strong grip.

"Er, nice to meet you." he says awkwardly, trying to resist the urge to rub over his hand. She has a sweet face, and a pretty name, but her demeanour contradicts it entirely.

"Move out of the doorway, Lou! Let me see my godson!"

"That's _Miss Bouvier _to you, Mr. Black." she replies, her tone and eyes a bit softer now, glancing over her shoulder to someone that's just out of Harry's range of vision, his heart shooting up his throat at the voice. The moment she moves, Harry slips past her into the room.

It isn't as white as the rest of the hospital—the walls have beige paint, moving posters of Quidditch and Muggle posters of motorcycles (as well as a rather saucy calendar of attractive Muggle women) decorating the room. The single bed next to the window is empty and made neatly, while someone is occupying the wooden chair at the desk, but only for a second.

Sirius Black is a man wholly reborn. He looks much cleaner and fresher in every way. The tinge of his skin is healthy and the skinniness has all but disappeared aside from what Harry suspects is natural. His hair is thick in combed, wavy locks, cut off to his shoulders, and his facial hair neatly trimmed. The look in his eyes still holds a glint—one of happiness this time.

For a moment that only lasts a second, they just look at each other. Harry is struck speechless by the sight of this person that seems so different from the man he'd seen in the Shrieking Shack. Three weeks had worked miracles, though there is still something about his eyes that holds a shadow, one that will probably never leave.

"Harry!" Sirius has an impossibly wide grin on his face, his hands on Harry's shoulders the very next second. "Merlin, you could've been James' twin."

The stare aimed at him is so attentive Harry starts feeling shy, even though there's no reason to. They've exchanged dozens of letters, have gotten to know each other, but to meet in person is something else entirely. Harry feels as if his senses are being overwhelmed—this man that smiles at him so radiantly, his father's best friend, was left to rot in a prison cell for twelve years. It eats at him from the inside out, not allowing him to fully enjoy this moment.

"You look…" Harry clears his throat, swallowing with difficulty, not quite meeting Sirius' eyes in fear that he'll show the misplaced guilt there. "You look great. A lot better than when we first met."

"I feel a lot better, too." Sirius replies, gesturing to the small couch on the other side of the room, next to a virtually empty bookcase. "Let's sit down—Remus, good to see you."

The former teacher who'd been watching near the doorway next to the therapist takes that as a cue to step inside with a faint smile. "I hope you haven't been driving Ms. Bouvier too much up the wall in my absence?"

Alouette (Harry really can't bring himself to refer to her as something as non-intimidating as _Lou_, it's too much of a contradiction inside his head) curves her lips in something resembling a smile, though it looks much too stiff to be called one. "I've had to apply some new _techniques_ to make sure Mr. Black took his medicine. And please, Remus, just Lou."

"Techniques, sure, short of cramming the pills down my throat," Sirius sneers sardonically, sitting down on one end with Harry next to him, Remus taking a seat on the desk-chair. "You should stop telling people to call you that, they never will. You scare them too much."

Alouette almost bristles with indignation, though the playful shimmer in her eyes gives her away. "_You _call me Lou."

"I'm a patient in a mental ward; I don't think you should be using me as an example."

"I thought you were just his therapist?" Harry asks, failing to suppress his smirk at the conversation though his curiosity overrides his amusement for the moment.

"I'm more like his case worker, you could say. I oversee both his physical and emotional progress, and make sure he doesn't regress." Alouette answers, suddenly shifting to a more business-like mien. "Most patients are assigned a single Healer specializing in whatever area they need, but since Mr. Black is such a unique case, we have created an extensive recovery program for him to help him integrate back into society. There's a Healer overseeing his physical well-being, a Mind Healer to deal with his trauma, and a guide to retrain him in magic. I supervise his overall development."

"Retrain him?"

"Prolonged exposure to Dementors tends to cause a block in magic if the victim survives. Luckily, Mr. Black seems to be an exceptionally resilient individual, though he'd be doing much better if he _took his medicine_." Alouette frowns disapprovingly at Sirius with this, her arms folded sternly across her chest, though he seems to be ignoring it.

"He looks plenty fine to me."Harry notes, perhaps a bit naively.

"That's what I've been telling them this whole time." Sirius says exasperatedly, which only causes Alouette's frown to deepen.

"Your body has already been cleared off the treatment list—your mind is a different matter." She turns back to Harry. "He'll be free to go once he arranges stable living arrangements, but he'll still have mandatory therapy sessions once a week." Back to Sirius, a strict look on her face. "If you want to get custody of Harry, you won't persuade the court by skipping out on your scheduled medication."

Sirius grumbles something unintelligible underneath his breath but doesn't retort. Harry wonders what kind of emotional complications his godfather could be having, and imagines it can't be too pleasant if it means compulsory psychological treatment.

Alouette glances at her watch. "I should go, I have another patient waiting for me to do a check-up. It was nice meeting you, Harry. Remus," She nods to him. "Keep him out of trouble."

Without another word to Sirius or waiting for a response from any of them, the woman leaves, closing the door behind her.

"She's quite something, isn't she?" Remus says casually, it being followed by another grunt from Sirius, who doesn't look too happy with his case worker—it figures, really. From his letters Harry could already tell Sirius is a typical Gryffindor, and they don't do very well with rules. Alouette on the other hand seems to be very severe with her rules. "So, aside from _not _taking your medicine, what else have you done the past few days?"

"Not much. I arranged a few meetings with estate agents to look at some houses, but that's about it." Sirius answers, sounding a bit grim about it. "I could use the distraction, what with the trial being next week."

The silence that follows is weighted, more so for the two adults in the room than for Harry. He can't imagine what they had to be feeling—if Ron or Hermione betrayed him like Pettigrew had his parents and Remus and Sirius, he didn't know how he would react. If he would even have it in him to go to their trial.

"I want to come as well," he eventually says, earning mixed looks of surprise and concern. "I need to see it for myself." It isn't just about Pettigrew; this trial is about something much bigger. He needs to witness first-hand how the Ministry operates before making any permanent judgements.

"Are you sure?" Sirius questions, a crease between his brows. "We already know the outcome. He'll be heading into Azkaban for the rest of his life. There's no need for you to—"

"You think that's normal?" Harry blurts out before he can stop himself, honestly startled by what Sirius is saying. "To already know the outcome of a trial days before it's held?"

"What are you talking about, Harry? _We _know the truth; Wormtail is guilty."

"But don't you even want to know why he did it? What lead him to-to betray you like that?"

"He was a coward, plain and simple, and now he'll pay the price." Sirius replies with an edge to his voice, starting to grow defensive. Harry doesn't want to push this issue, but he hasn't been comfortable with the idea ever since he understood what Azkaban was really _for_. From his peripheral vision he can see Remus staring at him observantly, remaining silent.

Eventually, very quietly, Harry says, "I don't like the idea of Azkaban."

"Harry, no one likes the idea of Azkaban, but Death Eater scum like Wormtail—"

"It's not about him, it's about _us_." he persists, his voice stronger now. "You were sent to Azkaban and you were innocent. Sure, you might think that Wormtail deserves it, but what about other innocent people that are locked up in this giant prison in the middle of nowhere? We're literally _torturing _people as if it's the most normal thing in the world!"

Sirius looks at a loss for words, glancing at Remus as if asking for a clarification, though he seems pensive more than anything else as he watches Harry closely. "You don't want him to go to Azkaban?"

"I don't want _anyone _to go to Azkaban anymore," Harry replies decisively. "I don't want there to be an Azkaban at all. I know that's… well, it must sound pretty mad to you, and I have no idea how to do it or what the alternative would be, but it has to be better than this." The thought of another Sirius, locked deep inside that hell-hole of a prison, forgotten by the rest of the world, is pure nightmare fuel.

"You have a much stronger sense of justice than most," Remus eventually says after a long pause. "Just like Lily."

That draws a startled laugh out of Sirius, who shakes his head. "She always did go on and on about the poor House Elves."

"House Elves?" Harry says with a confused look, thrown off-track.

"Oh, yes, it was always _slavery this_ and _oppression that_—James insisted on getting one when she was pregnant of you to make things easier around the house, since he still had a full-time job as an Auror. But she put her foot down and refused, forcing him to do most of the housework instead."

"Wait, didn't she have magic too? Couldn't she just do it herself anyway?"

"Not exactly," Sirius says with a lopsided smirk. "When a witch gets pregnant, as far as I understand it, her hormones tend to mess up her magical core for a while. It differs from woman to woman. Some have very little side-effects, but Lily's in particular was really, er, _explosive _sometimes."

He has Harry's full attention as he goes on to tell a story about how Lily almost burned the house down when she tried to levitate a glass of water on the kitchen counter to where she was sitting at the table. Instead she ended up setting the counter on fire. James ran downstairs in a panic to put the fire out and burned off one eyebrow in the process—something which Sirius, regrettably, hadn't managed to take a picture of.

Talking to Sirius feels incredibly natural, as if he's just an old friend Harry hasn't spoken to in a while. Things seem to fall right into their place with Sirius reciting several fun stories involving his parents that Harry hasn't heard yet, Remus filling in blanks and adding commentary when appropriate. They laugh together, enjoy the time spent so much they lose track of it until the sky starts to grow dark, and even then, leaving again isn't something Harry looks forward to.

He's staying with the Weasleys for most of the vacation, a temporary arrangement until he finds a new home, and as much fun it is to spend the days with his best friend, Harry feels an enormous reluctance when Remus stands up and announces it is time for them to head home.

"I'll visit again in a few days," he promises Sirius, standing outside the door of his room, Remus behind him out in the corridor.

"I'm glad to hear it." Without even hesitating, as if it's just _meant _to be this way, Sirius pulls him in for a tight hug, ruffling his hair affectionately in the process. "You're a good kid, Harry. I'm lucky to be your godfather." But there is a hesitance there. In Harry's eyes it is baseless, but Sirius' demons can't seem to allow him to take something as it is, so he asks, "You haven't changed your mind, have you? About living with me after I'm discharged, I mean. I understand if you have, I'm not the most—"

"No, I haven't." Harry replies instantly, and the relieved smile on Sirius' face makes his heart clench, the face of a broken man flashing inside his head. "You'll be fine. It'll be great." he says with nothing but pure conviction in his voice, the grip of Sirius' hand on his shoulder tight without being painful.

"Good," the man says with an approving nod. "Because I doubt you'll ever be able to get rid of me from now on."

Walking away from that to return home feels like one of the hardest things Harry has ever done, but even if that part of the goodbye is bitter, there's a sweet part that makes it all worthwhile. A thought that, he is sure, would make for the most brilliant Patronus of them all.

For the first time in his life, Harry has family.


	10. Chapter Ten

**A/N:** Guys. You guys. It has been three chapters since we hit the 100-review-milestone and we're already 23 short of the 200 mark. HOW. I am just. Words. Also! I feel like I should be talking to my readers a lot more—I'd like to get to know you guys better, considering all the wonderful support I've gotten. So please feel free to shoot me a PM saying hi, or follow me on my Tumblr (link's on my profile) and I'll follow you back! With that said, please enjoy this next one while I curl up in a ball and cry happy tears.

* * *

LITHIUM

**CHAPTER TEN**

The sun is bright as it shines down on the long table for eleven in the backyard of the Burrow. By seven o'clock, the wood is groaning under loaded dishes of Mrs. Weasley's excellent cooking. The nine Weasleys, Harry and Hermione are settling themselves down to eat beneath a clear, deep-blue sky.

It has been a few days since Harry's first visit to Sirius at St. Mungo's. The trial is only two days away and while he has no reason to, he feels a bit anxious. Perhaps it is because it signals the culmination of a year's worth of stress, but he can't help the tinge of paranoia that haunts him when he lies in bed at night. The Ministry's record on justice and transparency (and he has actually looked into that in recent weeks) is far from spotless. What if they brush the truth aside again?

Clearly they don't value it; the amount of scandals in the past decade alone that have been brushed under the rug is astounding. Allowing the de-regulation on safety measures for brooms is just a very recent example: deaths thanks to broom-related incidents have increased by a third ever since legislation was passed allowing for a higher speed-limit. The cause for this? The legal bribing of politicians from the businesses that make these brooms—faster brooms, even at the cost of safety (though this is scarcely mentioned in advertisements) are much more attractive after all.

Indeed, the games played in the Wizengamot that handles both the enforcement of laws as well as the creation of them are disturbing, but even this corruption is typical politics. It is ultimately to be expected in a society that blindly prides itself on its supposed superiority to Muggle societies.

No, what's truly shocking to Harry, next to Azkaban's very _existence_, is how non-humans have little to no rights to speak of. Werewolves, goblins, house elves and centaurs are some groups that have been dealing with discrimination and prejudice for centuries—they do not even have the right for a trial, as such rights have only been appointed to _humans_, and the aforementioned groups are classified as _beings_. Less than humans, the Ministry wants you to believe.

Oh yes, there is something amiss, something terribly wrong and disquieting about the wizarding world. What if Remus is ever accused of something? It's not like it hasn't happened before. Werewolves are thought to be inherently violent, possessing no self-control; framing one for a murder is stupidly easy. The Wizengamot, according to the law, would be entirely within its rights to condemn him to a one-way trip to Azkaban on the spot. _Has _condemned several without a trial on the spot, in the past.

All in all, Harry is nervous. Disgusted and angry and deeply disappointed, but mostly nervous. Relaying his concerns to Sirius through letters hasn't helped—his godfather brushed them off almost cheerfully and said that the truth is on their side, so they have nothing to fear. Harry had to force himself not to point out that the truth was on his side twelve years ago as well, and that didn't help him one bit at the time.

It is during these times of uncertainty that a particular person's absence from his life feels like hot iron on his skin.

If anyone can offer solid reassurance, it is definitely Tom; Harry imagines he'd reason his anxiety away at the snap of a finger, offer something so logically sound that the little irrationalities in his thoughts would disappear instantly. Unfortunately, the diary remains sealed. Either way he is still connected to it, and he can feel his friend's presence there as strong as ever, which is the only reason he hasn't been stressing out over that as well.

It also sucks he can't talk to anyone about it. If he hadn't promised silence to Tom, he would've relayed all these issues to Ron and Hermione already if only to have someone else to talk to without having the burden of secrets. Still, he's getting more concerned with every day that passes. How much rest does Tom need?

As all these thoughts pass his head, the people surrounding him seated at the table have been in light-hearted conversation for a while now. Harry listens rather than talks as he helps himself to chicken and ham pie, boiled potatoes, and salad.

At the far end of the table, Percy tells his father all about his report on cauldron bottoms, now working for the Ministry (which he never lacks to brag about when the opportunity presents itself). Harry has to put effort into not glaring every time he hears the name _Crouch_—the man that put his godfather away without so much as a trial.

"I've told Mr. Crouch that I'll have it ready by Tuesday," Percy mentions pompously, splitting a potato in half with his fork. "That's a bit sooner than he expected it, but I like to keep on top of things. I think he'll be grateful I've done it in good time, I mean, it's extremely busy in our department just now, what with all the arrangements for the World Cup. We're just not getting the support we need from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Ludo Bagman—"

"I like Ludo," Mr. Weasley says mildly. "He was the one who got us such good tickets for the Cup. I did him a bit of a favour: His brother, Otto, got into a spot of trouble—a lawnmower with unnatural powers—I smoothed the whole thing over."

"Oh, Bagman's likeable enough, of course," Percy's tone is dismissive as he barely touches his food seeming more interested in chatting. "But how he ever got to be Head of Department… when I compare him to Mr. Crouch! I can't see Mr. Crouch losing a member of our department and not trying to find out what's happened to them. You realize Bertha Jorkins has been missing for over a month now? Went on holiday to Albania and never came back?"

"Yes, I was asking Ludo about that," Mr. Weasley replies, frowning. "He says Bertha's gotten lost plenty of times before now—though I must say, if it was someone in my department, I'd be worried."

In the middle of the table, Mrs. Weasley argues with Bill about his earring, which seems to have been a recent acquisition.

"…with a horrible great fang on it. Really, Bill, what do they say at the bank?"

"Mum, no one at the bank gives a damn how I dress as long as I bring home plenty of treasure," Bill answers, seeming to barely suppress rolling his eyes.

"And your hair's getting silly, dear," Mrs. Weasley continues as if she didn't hear her son, fingering her wand lovingly. "I wish you'd let me give it a trim."

"I like it," Ginny pipes up, seated beside Bill. "You're so old-fashioned, mum. Anyway, it's nowhere near as long as Professor Dumbledore's."

Next to Mrs. Weasley, Fred, George, Ron and Charlie are all talking spiritedly about the World Cup. A topic, to Harry's shame, he doesn't know a whole lot about. Quidditch runs in his family—his father was a wildly talented Chaser, and he is quite a skilled Seeker, yet he hasn't a clue about current Quidditch events.

"It's got to be Ireland," Charlie states thickly, through a mouthful of potato. "They flattened Peru in the semifinals."

"Bulgaria has got Viktor Krum, though," Fred counters.

"Krum's one decent player, Ireland has got seven. I wish England had got through. That was embarrassing, that was."

"What happened?" Harry inquires eagerly, thinking it about high time he brushed up on his Quidditch knowledge.

"Went down to Transylvania, three hundred and ninety to ten," Charlie mumbles gloomily, shovelling around a few peas on his plate with his knife. "Shocking performance. And Wales lost to Uganda, and Scotland was slaughtered by Luxembourg."

Mr. Weasley takes that moment to conjure up candles to light the darkening garden before they have their home-made strawberry ice cream, and by the time they finish, moths are fluttering low over the table, and the warm air is perfumed with the smells of grass and honeysuckle.

Harry feels extremely well fed and perhaps even relaxed for the first time in weeks as he watches several gnomes sprinting through the rosebushes, laughing madly and closely pursued by Crookshanks. Surrounded by friends, it is impossible for him to stay that tense for long.

"So," Ron remarks after a long debate on who the best Chaser is for Ireland with his brothers, "have you heard from Sirius lately?"

That topic gets the attention of nearly the entire table. The topic of Sirius Black is discussed at least twice a day in the Burrow, and has been somewhere on the front page on the _Daily Prophet _for a while now. He's getting a bit tired of repeating the same things, but with Sirius' most recent letter at least he has something new to announce.

"He said he found an apartment in London, just west from Diagon Alley," Harry answers, trying to ignore the eyes watching him. "He wants us to take a look at it together, after the trial."

"Will he be released from St. Mungo's that soon?" Mrs. Weasley asks, eyebrows furrowed in concern. She especially has drilled Harry about Sirius after he revealed his plans to go live with his godfather.

"I think so. He's still gonna get therapy, once a week."

"Well, if you ask me, it's far too early. I would've had him stay there for at least three more months." Percy remarks stiffly from across the table. "Who knows when he could snap. Azkaban does that to people."

"Yeah? And who's the git who locked him up there in the first place?" Harry snaps despite himself.

"Mr. Crouch—"

"—can _shove it_." Harry ignores Hermione's admonishing look and Ron stifling his snicker at Percy's face turning scarlet, opting to glower at him instead.

"Now, now, Perce, watch the blood pressure." George chimes in good-naturedly, earning a scalding look from his brother.

"That's enough, boys," Mrs. Weasley announces abruptly, standing up and breaking the uncomfortable tension. "Who wants to volunteer for clean-up duty, hmm?"

The twins exchange nervous looks when their mother's eyes land on them and simultaneously blurt out several excuses, none of which Mrs. Weasley pays any attention to. Since they're still minors, they'll have to do it with hand, too; a punishment for the Ton Tongue Toffee they tricked Percy into eating that morning.

Amidst all this, staying with the Weasleys, his concerns for the trial, his worries for the state of the wizarding world, Tom still not talking to him, Harry has forgotten something very important. Something that happened a few days ago, and something he doesn't remember until it happens again that night when he falls asleep.

His scar is hurting.

* * *

The large dungeon he enters is intimidating, to say the least, but it is preferable to the constant flashes of cameras from the press that has circled around the courtroom. The walls are made of dark stone, dimly lit by torches. Empty benches are on either side of him, but ahead, in the highest benches of all, are many shadowy figures. They've been talking in low voices, but as the heavy door swings closed behind Harry and Sirius, a brief silence falls.

An irritated male voice rings across the courtroom.

"You're late."

"Sorry about that," Sirius responds easily without caring to give a reason, sauntering over to the steps leading up to the benches, choosing to sit lower than the people already present. Harry follows anxiously, his gaze falling on the man sitting in the middle of the crowd.

Albus Dumbledore, unlike his fellows in the court, is wearing _fashionable _violet robes, though he does not smile when he meets Harry's gaze nor do his eyes twinkle. Instead, the look behind the half-moon spectacles turns into one of slight worry when it's aimed at Sirius.

"Yes, well," Fudge shifts uncomfortably in his seat next to Dumbledore, dressed in a plum-coloured robe with an elaborately worked silver 'W' on the left-hand side of the chest. The others sitting around him are dressed identically. Dumbledore sticks out like a sore thumb. "I'm not certain the presence of Mr. Potter—"

Sirius pauses on the steps almost abruptly. "He has a right to be here." comes the cool response. He glances to Dumbledore, who gives him a careful nod, and sits down.

Harry drops his gaze to the chair in the centre of the room after sitting down next to Sirius, the two of them a bit separated from the members of the court. The arms of the chair are covered in chains; Wormtail will most likely be bound to it.

As the faint whispers resume, Harry looks around the court. On Dumbledore's right sits Fudge, and a broad, square-jawed witch with very short grey hair sits on his left; she wears a monocle and looks forbidding.

Only seconds after Harry and Sirius have taken a seat and before he can observe anyone else, the door opens once more. Escorted—or rather, _dragged_—straight towards the chair by two men, is Peter Pettigrew. The whispers fall into another silence, much more ominous than the one Harry and Sirius got.

Wormtail looks even worse than when he transformed into his human form in the Shrieking Shack. From the way his eyes flits about the room Harry thinks the man might've lost his mind a little, and he wonders if they've already introduced him to Azkaban.

Oddly, he feels very little when he looks at the terrified man being chained by his jailers. Next to him, however, Sirius stiffened the minute the doors opened. Harry glances at his godfather, and can read nothing from his expression, which scares him more than had he showed his fury.

"The accused being present," Dumbledore speaks up, his voice the first sound in the room aside from Wormtail's barely audible whimpering, "let us begin. Are you ready?" he calls down the row, to a man sitting at the very end of the front bench, holding a quill. It's the stenographer, most likely. The man gives a nod.

"Disciplinary hearing of the twenty-seventh of June," Dumbledore commences, and the stenographer starts taking notes at once, "into offences committed under the Decree for the Registration of Animagi, the International Statute of Secrecy, and the Statute of Criminal and Civil Law by Peter Wagnus Pettigrew.

"Interrogators: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Chief Warlock; Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of Magic; Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Court Scribe: Henrik Theodore Lombard. Witnesses for the prosecution: Sirius Orion Black and Harry James Potter. Members of the Wizengamot—well, you can write down all the names later, Henry. The charges against the accused are as follows…."

Harry starts zoning out. Dumbledore's voice goes down a list that he only picks up a few words of. _Mass murder. Aiding an enemy of the state. Framing an innocent man. _Attached to these keywords are all the laws and decrees he has violated in the process, something he has no interest in hearing. Seeing it translated into legal terms makes it feel too impersonal, somehow.

He prefers to watch Wormtail, and ponders about what could be going through his head. Does he feel any remorse for what he did, or is he only sorry that he got caught? If he had another chance, would he change things to make them better, or would he only save himself? How low can a man like him really sink until he hits the bottom?

The beady eyes that have a constant, watery look to them dart about every few seconds while long, sharp fingernails scratch on the arms of the steel chair. Once, only once, does his gaze linger on Harry when their stares are bound across the room.

He sees something there that turns his heart into ice.

Harry expected to see fear and nothing else but fear, and there's definitely specks of that reflected, but the predominant emotion present is hatred. For a moment, he thinks it's animosity towards him and Sirius, for capturing him and condemning him to a one-way trip to Azkaban, but then Wormtail does something very odd. When he looks at Sirius, the expression changes a bit before it is shifted down to his knees, his expression contorting into something akin to shame. That's when Harry spots it—self-loathing.

He barely moves an inch after picking that up and he continues to watch, all his concentration focused on his vision while all the noise is blocked. Is he feeling regret after all? Are they going to imprison a man that still has a semblance of goodness in him left?

Next to him, he finally notices Sirius has been speaking and he's barely been paying attention as his godfather relayed the story of that Halloween night and what really happened.

Wormtail does not even receive a questioning—apparently the Aurors have already interrogated him in private with Veritaserum, and one of them comes forward with a transcript to recite some of Wormtail's quotes to the Wizengamot.

"…second hour, he said, 'I had no choice'. We took a ten minute break after that, and when we came back he was curled up in the corner of the room, in some sort of catatonic state. Had to call a Healer. Didn't get much farther than that." The Auror with the wiry, short grey hair pauses there, glancing surreptitiously to his captive, still keeping an eye on him even though he's bound in shackles.

Dumbledore nods, and with his hands folded in front of him, leans down a bit from the stand, giving Wormtail a grave look. "Mr. Pettigrew, do you acknowledge the testimony of Mr. Dawlish as truth?"

Wormtail is still for a very long moment, before he (without even looking up to Dumbledore) nods almost imperceptibly.

"I will need a verbal response for the stenographer, Mr. Pettigrew."

Finally the small man looks up, glances once to Sirius, and finally breathes, "Yes."

Next to him, Harry hears a sharp intake of breath.

"In which case, do you have anything else to add before we cast the vote?"

'_It's over already?' _Harry looks around, the shadows of the dungeon hiding many that are present. He feels out of place in this crowd—is it even a crowd? It feels more like a faceless machine.

Wormtail's breathing becomes laboured as he looks at his former friend, whose presence next to Harry feels like that of a statue. "Yes, I-I have... I have something to say." He looks like he wants to stand up, but his chains don't allow him that. "Sirius, old friend—"

Harry catches his godfather's wrist before his hand can pull out his wand. Sirius' muscles twitch, but he does nothing to break the hold.

"I didn't know, I didn't know he would kill James and Lily, He said-He said he'd only—"

"YOU LIE!" It is nearly impossible to restrain him when Sirius nearly jumps down the stands, wand now drawn and seeming almost delirious with rage. Harry is smaller and nearly gets overpowered, were it not for the assistance of the other people sitting around them, everyone else present letting out shocked gasps or loud comments of their own. "YOU WANTED THEM DEAD!"

"They were my friends as well!" Wormtail howls, shaking in his chair as the Auror from before, Dawlish, has put himself between Sirius and him, his own wand raised. Harry still has his arms firmly around Sirius' waist, but the man still struggles, his fury having overridden whatever reason he has. "He said he only wanted Harry!"

Sirius breaks free and fires a spell that hits a pillar behind Wormtail, narrowly missing his head. The pillar explodes, combusting into dust and stones, and Sirius makes it down a stand until someone gets him with a Petrifying Charm and he falls down on the steps, body rigid (though his fall is cushioned by violet-coloured pillows).

Wormtail's gaze shifts to Harry once the threat of Sirius is gone, and Harry has never seen anyone look at him with such pure revulsion in their eyes. "IT WAS _YOU _HE WANTED! IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT THEY'RE DEAD!" he screams, and as Harry looks at him and hears such desperation in his voice, he cannot even bring himself to hate him back. "YOUR FAULT! YOU'RE TO BLAME, ONLY YOU! YOU'RE—"

Dawlish knocks Wormtail out instantly with a _Stupefy_, and as the commotion is sorted out, Harry remains standing as if nailed to the ground, looking down at Wormtail and finding there is nothing inside of him that feels any kind of emotion towards the unconscious criminal. He feels neither pity nor anger, and realizes distantly some part of him has dehumanized Wormtail. Peter Pettigrew no longer exists.

The Aurors drag Wormtail out of the chair, no doubt getting him back to his cell, and Dumbledore restores order to the Wizengamot with a few calming words. Sirius is un-Petrified and while his face is still red and he looks livid, he's no longer completely out of control, seeming to have regained his senses. A part of Harry is frightened and deeply disturbed at the sudden outburst—he saw it, that mad, ferocious glint in his eyes. It wasn't normal.

"Now that we've all calmed down," Dumbledore starts evenly, and Harry has never been more grateful for the man's composure that offers him an anchor in the midst of this chaos, "I think it's time to vote. Unless the two witnesses have any last words to the Wizengamot?"

Sirius moves back to his seat, consciously avoiding Harry's look, and does not respond. Harry himself, however, thinks it is time he ought to speak to this faceless machine.

"I'd like to ask you all for something, if that's okay." he starts out carefully, eyes somewhat apprehensively scanning the mass of people around him. At Dumbledore's nod and kind gaze, he takes a deep breath and gathers his nerves. "Don't send him to Azkaban."

Whispers ripple through the crowd like a wave, and Harry can feel both Dumbledore and Sirius' eyes now intensely focused on him, and tries to ignore it. Raising his voice to drown out the clamour, he continues. "Believe me, I'm not saying this for _his _benefit. Why would I? I'm saying it for our benefit. Do any of you actually realize what you're doing to these people by sending them there? What you're reducing us to?"

"Harry!" Fudge pipes up, the colour drained from his face. "Dear boy, you must be beside yourself, yes, you must have no clue what you're saying. I see this whole ordeal has affected you quite a bit—I told you we shouldn't have let him attend the trial!" he exclaims that last part, turning to Dumbledore.

"I think we should let him finish before jumping to conclusions, Minister." Dumbledore replies coolly, still looking at his student. "Go on, Harry." he says in a much kinder tone, the twinkle in his eyes having returned. He almost seems to look… proud. It is the only thing that keeps Harry from losing his voice, and he resumes.

"All those people in Azkaban right now—you're torturing them. I bet most of them would pick execution over a life-sentence there. Wormtail got my parents killed, but I don't want him there, I don't want _anyone _put in Azkaban anymore, because I know there are innocent people in there suffering right this minute. Just like Sirius did, when all of _you _turned your backs on him!"

The silence turns palpably tense, the discomfort exuding from the Wizengamot giving him a tiny bit of satisfaction, but not enough to stop the out-pour of pent-up frustration.

"He was stuck in there for _twelve years_! Anyone else would've long gone insane, and if it wasn't for him escaping, he would've _died _there, and no one would've cared! How do you people sleep at night, knowing a completely innocent man or woman is being tormented, all because YOU were all too damned lazy to do your jobs right!" He doesn't realize his voice is echoing loudly through the dungeon, thundering against the walls, until he feels a hand on his shoulder that seems to pull him out of the tirade.

He tries evening out his breath, continuing in a softer tone. "This isn't about people like Wormtail who do these horrible things. It's about us, and it's about the innocent people we harm. I would just like to ask you to think about it. How would you feel if they locked you away to be tortured by Dementors for a crime you didn't even commit? Just ask yourselves if it's really worth it."

He doesn't stick around for the vote. Sirius guides him down the stands, whispers resuming behind their backs, and Harry is glad to be out of the dungeon. Even the flash-lights from cameras are a more tolerable alternative than staying there any longer; he feels like he might suffocate if he doesn't get fresh air, soon.

Sirius doesn't say a thing, but his hand never leaves Harry's shoulder, either. They should talk about his outburst, but Harry isn't sure how to bring it up with this silence between them. In all honesty, he feels tired as well. His rant isn't going to make much of a difference. He has a feeling the press stationed outside the doors might have gotten wind of it, seeing as how he was nearly screaming during the entirety of it, but he doesn't really care about the consequences of that either.

If nothing else, at least it feels good to make a stand. To let it out and let them know that he's not okay with this, and that they shouldn't be either.

Using the visitor's exit (a phone booth of all things) they end up taking a walk to Sirius' potential apartment as it's only a few minutes away. Harry almost forgot about their planned visit to check out the place.

"They're still going to send him to Azkaban." Sirius eventually remarks as they walk in the shadow of a tall building, the sun just setting and dipping the sky in oranges and reds. The streets feel tranquil.

"I know," Harry mumbles back, his voice a bit hoarse. "I just felt like… I had to say something."

He doesn't want to be a part of it. Of them. That faceless machine. He _had _to speak out against it, if only to find comfort in establishing a line between them, separating himself from it all.

"For what it's worth," Sirius says, and Harry meets his eyes now, "I'm proud of you."

He opens his mouth to find some sort of response, but his tongue seems to have disappeared into the back of his throat, and all he can do is nod meekly.

It's the first time anyone has told him that.

"Hey, let's get some ice-cream." Sirius suggests out of the blue when they walk past an ice-cream shop, changing the topic in the most tactless way possible. Still, that single, mischievous smirk is enough for Harry to pretend and push his worries aside, and suddenly, even if for a short while, all is well.

* * *

"Sleeping this early?"

His hand fumbles to find the switch of the lamp on top of the night-stand, and even when he flicks it on, he can barely make out the figure in front of him with his blurred vision. The shade reaches out something to him, and when he takes it, he instantly recognizes his glasses and puts them on.

Even with his vision now sharp, he has to blink a few times and pinch himself to make sure this is not a dream, and Tom is indeed standing there in front of his bed, looking down at him with a faint curve of his lips. The dim light of the lamp creates shadows on his face that make his features look a bit softer, somehow, the blue in his eyes more prominent now as it shines.

Harry feels a bit stupid after a few seconds pass and he has literally nothing to say (in his defence, he _had _been in the process of falling asleep when Tom popped up). In the end, he just blurts out, "Hi?"

He doesn't have to worry about volume control much now; the twins are staying over at a friend's place and Bill and Charlie have both been gone for a few days on business, opening up a few rooms in the Burrow. As much as he loves Ron as a friend, the guy really snores too loudly sometimes, and especially because of the trial having been that morning he jumped at the opportunity for some privacy, a chance to sort his thoughts out and process the events.

Tom's eyebrows arch sharply, bringing him back to reality. The mockery in his expression is absent from his tone when he replies. "Hello."

"Uh…" Harry brushes his hand through his hair, and really, there's no actual distinction between his bed-hair and his regular hair. "So I guess you're better now?"

"I am as well as can be." Tom leaves it at that, and does not elaborate, instead attentively looking over the frazzled boy in front of him.

Harry can still barely take it all in, hasn't realized how sorely he has missed the sheer tranquillity and comfort that comes from Tom's presence. He feels at home again, peaceful, almost. He doesn't think he has missed anyone this notably before. Of course he always misses Ron and Hermione when they're away, and all his other friends, but Tom became a real part of his life—not part of his routine, or just someone to have fun with or be mates with, but a real part of who he _is_. Tom shaped him in certain ways. It's the most significant impact anyone has ever had on him.

"I'm glad you're back." he states as these thoughts cross his mind, real feeling behind the words, and Tom looks at him almost curiously, head tilting slightly to the side. The stare isn't exactly unnerving, but the longer it goes on, the more anxious Harry starts feeling.

"I'm glad you think so." Tom then smiles, and it's just the way he looks at him that makes all of Harry's drowsiness disappear, his stomach doing a spontaneous flip and his chest filled with a sort of buzzing sensation he's never felt before.

'_Is it normal to feel this insanely happy out of nowhere?' _

There's just something about how the shadows play off his face, the unusual brightness of his eyes, the way his lips twist—it's just _different_ to Harry now. He wonders what has changed.

"Would you like to fill me in on what I've missed?" Tom offers after probably realizing that Harry isn't in the right state to speak at the moment. "Though, if you're too tired—I did interrupt your sleep, after all…"

"No, it's fine, I don't mind." Harry says quickly, eagerly, immediately sitting up straighter. "I've got a lot of things to tell you."

Tom nods, and takes a seat on the edge of Harry's bed so naturally that it's as if he never really left.

"Start from the beginning."


	11. Chapter Eleven

**A/N:** We've passed 200 reviews and 30,000 hits. What the fuck, you guys. I just.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAhhhHHHhhhh

Er, sorry about that. Today's chapter: Harry Meets Puberty. Enjoy!

**UPDATE!:** So it turns out November is going to be an extremely busy month for me in terms of my studies, so unfortunately I'll be taking a brief hiatus to focus on my schoolwork. Please be patient, and thank you for your understanding :)

* * *

LITHIUM

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

She wanted to meet at Grimmauld Place. Sirius doesn't know why, but he complied simply because he's curious to see what his shrink planned for him. His ancestral home is a place of very few good memories, but perhaps it's time he paid a visit, if only to bid it goodbye, permanently.

Peter's trial taught him something he should've known earlier—he's not ready. Twelve years of Azkaban cannot be wiped from the ledger with a carefree smile. The sight of James and Lily's corpses cannot be erased from memory with a hand on their son's shoulder. The anger, the agony, the alienation and acerbity brewing inside of him cannot be ignored with a charade. He has a problem, and he needs to face it and deal with it before it gets the better of him.

As much as Lou is rigid and almost dogmatic in her rules, those rules are there for his benefit. No alcohol. No drugs. Therapy. Talking. Opening up. He didn't like it during their first session and he still doesn't, but he understands that she knows what she's doing better than he does, and it is time to trust her. It won't be easy, and he's afraid of a relapse to the constant nightmares that sometimes even bled into the daylight (Halloween night, **Lily**_**, **_shattered wood, iron bars, _shadows_, rotted fingers, _**James**_—), but he knows ignoring it will be worse.

Inside, it is every bit as dusty as it was in the beginning. She's already waiting for him, her hair down, framing her heart-shaped face with small, thick curls. The dim light of the living room makes her skin appear a shade darker than it really is.

"You came," she says when she sees him, thin eyebrows arching nearly to her hairline. Still every bit as stiff as when they first met, her posture straight as a board and her arms crossed over her chest. She's standing near the doorway to the dining room, as if a guard stationed to look out for burglars.

"No need to sound so surprised," he replies as casually as he can, even as memories rush back to him.

Walburga sitting in the armchair near the fireplace, screaming years' worth of disappointment at him as he storms up the stairs, shoving his younger brother out of the way in the process. Regulus' somber eyes, his father's persisting absence, his mother's explosive temper—it hits him all at once. He was shaped and moulded into an impulsive young man masking his troubles in a façade of blithe pleasure. All inside this house.

Lou watches him, the minty green colour of her eyes somehow appearing dark. She says nothing, and merely observes him as he walks through the living room, touching the walls, the fireplace mantle, the pictureless frames, the divan, the chair… he hates it. An image comes to him, of the flames in the fireplace spreading throughout the living room, to the rest of the house, burning it down and reducing it to ashes. The thought makes him smile.

"Would you like to give me a tour of the house?" Lou asks quietly when he too says nothing, the silence having stretched for what feels like decades between them. He wishes Remus would've come with him, but the man insisted this was something he needed to alone. As always, he'd been right. This is a demon only he can face.

"No," the answer comes reflexively.

She simply nods, and gestures to the divan across her chair. He sits down. It's one of the things he _does _like about the aloof Frenchwoman; she doesn't push him, she only accepts.

Something about her unbending character reminds him vaguely of his cousin. His mouth twists in a grimace at the thought of Bellatrix. Lou would hate her.

"How have you been?"

He leans back into the couch, fingers stretching over the dark red fabric. He finds a cigarette burn. "Fantastic."

"I heard of your meltdown at the trial."

"It wasn't a _meltdown_," he snaps instinctively, and Lou frowns, crossing a leg over another and leaning back into the chair as if daring him to challenge her. "It was a… a moment of passion."

"A passionate meltdown, then." she quips dryly.

"Very funny. I thought you were a therapist, not a comedian." The deadpan expression on her face remains, and he laughs, shaking his head. "What do you want me to say, Lou?"

"Wendy informed me of your uncooperative behaviour during the weekly session." Lou continues, the sudden change in topic throwing him off guard. She looks serious then; stern, and disapproving. "Is this personal between you two? You always behave with Matthias."

"Matthias isn't a nosy old crone." Sirius sneers at the thought of the Mind Healer who wouldn't stop asking him about his goddamned childhood. What the hell did Walburga's constant berating have to do with his trip to Azkaban anyway?

"It's her job to be nosy, Mr. Black."

"Could you quit it with the Mr. Black?" he grumbles. "My father is Mr. Black, I'm—"

"_Was _Mr. Black." she corrects him patiently. "I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice, but you are the only surviving member, and thus Head, of Black House."

"Doesn't that mean you have to address me as _Lord _Black, then?"

She cracks a smile, though it is nearly imperceptible for the untrained eye. He's been training himself to catch such subtleties, as it is the only way he'll remember that Lou is actually human and not made of stone as she sometimes appears to be. Why couldn't Remus be his shrink?

"I was never one to care for the old ways."

Sirius snorts, looking away. He has the itching urge to light the fireplace. Perhaps Lou notices, because a moment later she pulls out her wand and shoots a spell into the old wood, flames bursting forth before calming down to a cosy fire. It feels oddly homey in this place he never called home.

"I'm taking over from Wendy." His head snaps up at that, eyes locked onto the poised woman sitting across from him. "Clearly I am the only qualified professional that can handle you at the moment. You'll still be getting a monthly physical with Matthias, though he tells me your magical capabilities have restored themselves at an exceptional rate."

At this he grins, winking at her—without meaning it. A deflection. "What can I say? I'm an exceptional man."

She breathes out a laugh that sounds oddly indifferent and never reaches her eyes; he isn't sure whether to laugh with her or take offense. It's irritating. Is he certain that's she's actually a woman and not some figurine pretending to be one? Sometimes he doesn't know.

Maybe she's just reflecting his own lie back at him. It does seem like something she'd do, in which case, it's probably better if he starts displaying the truth.

"Exceptionally temperamental, I'll give you that." she remarks after evening out her facial expression again.

"This about the trial, again?" His eyebrows furrow, jaw set in tension. "What did you expect me to do? Did you even hear what he—"

"I heard everything," Lou acknowledges curtly, and while she had never been truly relaxed, any hint of humour is now gone from her demeanour. "He blames Harry for it, doesn't he? An understandable defence mechanism; likely the guilt of his actions is too much for his conscience to bear, so he projects it onto the only person he can."

"Their _son_!" Sirius snarls. "My godson! Why can't he project his bullshit onto Voldemort?!"

"Voldemort is gone. Harry makes for a sufficient scapegoat."

When he opens his mouth once more to contradict her, she raises her hand. "I am not telling you to forgive him, though that would lessen your own burden considerably. I'm merely explaining it so you can understand. If you understand, at least you'll stop beating yourself up over it."

He presses his lips together and scowls down at his knees, brooding in silence. Forgive, he will never. Understand? He doesn't want to understand. He just wants the man to suffer for his crimes, his betrayal, like he did.

The truth is that Sirius can never be as good as person as Harry is. His godson is his pride; he is a wonderfully idealistic and just young man. Harry is everything he can't be, not anymore. It's too late for him.

"Sirius," The uncharacteristically informal address makes him look up again, though he doesn't want to. Lou's gaze has a way to unnerve someone, piercing and steady as it is. "You and Pettigrew are not the same."

For a moment he wants to exclaim that he knows that, and that it's ridiculous and downright insulting for her to even suggest that he would think that, but the words are stuck in the back of his throat.

She continues, her voice feather-soft. "You didn't deserve Azkaban."

"I'd have to disagree," he responds instinctively, his own voice hoarse in contrast. He's going to take a leap of faith and trust her with this. It's time to take a step in the right direction. He can't have another outburst like that at the trial—remembering Harry's face, filled with not only shock and concern, but even a hint of fear, has served as an enormous wake-up call. This can't go on.

"You didn't know—"

"Don't you think I already understand that?" he interrupts her coldly, not looking at her but at the ebony coffee table between them, a large scented candle resting in the middle of it covered in dust. "That I haven't been telling myself that? The only thing that kept me sane in Azkaban was knowing that I was innocent, and I get it, I couldn't have predicted he would turn traitor, I couldn't have been there faster, all of it was out of my hands but I don't… I don't _believe _it. It makes sense in my head, but I can't bring myself to believe it."

Lou is quiet for a long time, and Sirius doesn't look at her. He looks at his hands, worn out, tired, aching. His nails are incredibly short, a result of chewing on them for years and years. It's one of the few physical scars left that couldn't be fixed with simple healing magic. He could've gotten them regrown, but he never mentioned it to the Healers. It is one of his last reminders, and he can't let go of it.

"You never left Azkaban, did you?"

Sirius leans his head back against the single headrest of the divan, inhaling deeply. "When I close my eyes, it feels as if I'm still there. Sometimes I even think that the time that I spend awake is just a dream, and I'll wake up again when I go to sleep, finding myself back inside that cell, Dementors patrolling the corridors." His body shudders despite the warmth of the fire filling the room, and he exhales the ice out of his lungs.

"How often do you have nightmares?"

"It used to be every night. Ever since seeing Harry, it started getting less. Four times a week, maybe." He feels exhausted, but he doesn't want to go to sleep. Doesn't dare to. "I think I need him more than he needs me."

"It's okay to need," Lou says with a gentleness in her voice he hasn't heard before. Then again, he hasn't been this honest before during one of their sessions either. "Just don't _depend _on him, Sirius. He's still a child."

"I know that." he grumbles, laying the back of his hand over his eyes, not closing them. The cover from the lights is comforting.

"And if you forget?"

"Then I'll have you and Remus to remind me, don't I?" He peeks at her from between his fingers, spotting a slight smile playing on her lips—dare he say it, a genuine one at that. She stands up from the armchair, reaching out her hand to him more in a gesture than an actual signal for him to take it. He's pretty sure she'll actually crush his hand if he does. She isn't a very touchy-feely type of person.

"Come, show me the rest of the house," she says, and he pushes himself off the couch. Anything is better than lingering in the living room and wallowing in self-pity, and if he's going to trust her with the truth, he might as well trust her with the past too. "Where's your old room?"

"Third floor. You don't want to see it; it was a complete pigsty as I recall."

"It can't be that bad."

"I kept my motorcycle in there, you know."

Lou laughs, and this time, the sound has warmth to it. "Somehow, I think I should have expected that."

* * *

Tom doesn't agree with his actions.

His criticism ranges from how strongly Harry has positioned his stance against a well-established societal institution that has been around for centuries, to the very premise of his objections.

It is strange to him how they could have such wildly different points of view, and he doesn't think they'll ever agree. It is perhaps the first time he sees Tom's own confidence in being right—he is unyielding, countering every one of his points with a callous sort of logic, but not in a manner that annoys Harry. He's not arrogant about it, or condescending like say, Malfoy would be.

"You have no solution, yet you take the moral high ground and tell the entire wizarding community that they're wrong and this ought to change." he says two days after his return when they are outside, taking a walk around the fields surrounding the Burrow and reviving the old discussion. "What do you propose? Would you have us set the Dementors free, let them roam and choose their victims at random?"

"No, of course not," Harry replies with an irritated look, kicking a rock and watching it roll into a small puddle of water on the side of the road. Ron and Hermione are inside, Harry having given them an excuse of needing to be alone to think over the events at the trial. In a way, it's the truth.

"What then?" Tom says, an eyebrow arched slightly as he waits for an answer. The sunlight acts odd in his presence, as if it's falling around him like a thin blanket instead of being absorbed by his skin, obscuring the lack of colour. "Should we get rid of the Dementors?"

"Is that possible?"

Tom stops in his tracks, giving him an incredulous look with his eyes only, the rest of his face blank. "You'd commit genocide because their source of food offends your moral sensibilities?"

Harry rubs the back of his head, getting frustrated at his own lack of a proper response. He just doesn't know. He means well, but that isn't enough. He has to have a plan. "It's not about my '_moral sensibilities_', it's about the innocent people like Sirius that suffer because of this, well, state-condoned torture!"

"Until you know how to solve it, I don't think it's wise to protest it." Tom replies smoothly, resuming his walk by Harry's side. "It will only hurt your credibility. The newspapers are already having a field trip with it—as I recall, _idealist _was the kindest word that was used to describe you."

"I don't care what some stupid journalist writes about me." Harry mumbles, shoving his hands inside his pockets with a scowl.

"You should," Tom side-eyes him with a somewhat disapproving look he feels half-inclined to challenge with a glare. "Reputation is everything, and right now, you're seen by the public as an arrogant and clueless child. How can you think to change the old ways when public perception of you is so negative?"

"But the whole thing is just wrong!" he exclaims in frustration. "Anyone can see that it's wrong!"

Tom is quiet for a while, letting him stew in his ire before quietly replying, "Wrong is a very subjective thing, Harry."

"So you're fine with this?" the boy questions him in response. "You think this is okay?"

"And why not? It is the most efficient way to handle the situation." This time it's Harry's turn to stop dead in his tracks, Tom continuing to walk a few steps ahead before he turns around to face him, the very embodiment of cool and collected. "The alternative is to destroy all the Dementors altogether, which would be entirely displeasing to your moral code, I'm sure. Or you set them free, at the cost of even more innocents that are being harmed now. Do the math for yourself; save a few by closing Azkaban down, or save a hundred more by keeping it open."

Harry stares at him and feels as if he's really _seeing _Tom for the first time. That's all this is to him? A mathematical equation? The young man in front of him seems to have no qualms with it, almost pleasantly unconcerned with the ethics of it. He makes sense, but it's such a detached way of thinking Harry doesn't know what to do with it, what to think of it.

"Why can't we save everyone? Why does it have to—"

"You can never save everyone." Tom cuts him off, and the sunlight turns as cold as his voice. Harry suppresses a shiver, catching Tom's eyes and for a moment forgetting that everything else exists. "To save one person means not to save another. Sacrifices are a part of life. I thought you of all people would understand that."

He struggles with his words for a moment, looking away and crossing his arms, the air chilly. "That's not good enough." It can't be a choice based on pure calculus; you can't determine the worth of human lives as if you're putting weights on a scale. Of course the world can't be perfect and there's always someone that will suffer as a consequence, but Harry refuses to believe they can't do better than _this_.

"Oh?" Tom seems amused now, doing nothing to calm his incensed friend down. "Genocide it is, then? Though I suppose it wouldn't be such a drastic change. As far as we know, Dementors contribute nothing to their environment nor have any impact on it. Even leeches have their benefits, but Dementors…" The brilliant young man turns contemplative, his eyes drifting off to the ground. "They seem to exist solely to feed off humans. I am surprised no one has attempted to eradicate them sooner."

"Is it even possible to kill one?" Harry asks hesitantly. The way Tom puts it, it doesn't seem like it would matter if they got rid of them all. He isn't sure about it, though. Can Dementors even feel? Are they even intelligent, for that matter? Would it make a difference if they were destroyed?

Tom looks up to him, intensity in his eyes as if he's attempting to dissect Harry by his gaze alone. The few seconds of wordless eye-contact makes him feel uneasy. He's used to being stared at, but to be the focus of Tom's attention is something entirely different. He feels completely naked under his gaze. "So you _are _considering it."

Harry looks away, feeling tense and awkward and unsure of himself, of Tom's renewed intrigue. He feels a blush creeping up his neck, spreading to his cheeks and ears. "I don't know. I have no idea how Dementors even work, if it's… if it would be like killing another person."

"Doubtful," Tom murmurs thoughtfully, mercifully diverting his sight to their surroundings. "Dementors can follow basic orders, but I'd liken their intelligence more to that of a dog than a human being. Their primary and sole purpose for existence seems to be to feed, and occasionally, reproduce." Perhaps he notices Harry's persisting discomfort on the subject, because he goes on to elaborate. "Farmers are allowed to kill wolves that prey on their sheep, are they not? It is not an exact comparison, but the thought behind it is the same. Dementors are a threat and their existence offers no benefits. Though I think I'd much rather keep them around, if only for academic purposes."

"Academic purposes?"

"Don't tell me you've never wondered how they are able to suck one's soul out of their body with just their mouths?" Tom says, looking up to the sky where dark clouds are gathering overhead. "Only the most complicated and ancient magic would be able to recreate the effect, and yet Dementors do it as part of their nature. It would be a waste to murder them all without studying them at the very least."

Harry blinks, frowning slightly. "Er, no, I've never wondered that. I still don't, actually."

Tom hums, but doesn't continue the discussion further. Harry isn't entirely sure what this talk between them has resulted in, but at least now he has a possible answer to the problem of Azkaban, though he'll have to think on it further. He'll have to read up a whole lot more on Dementors before deciding, in any case.

The subject changes as Tom inquires to Harry's plans for the next few weeks. He already went looking to an apartment with Sirius yesterday, his godfather seeming to be intent on buying that one. It is a large penthouse, having several extra floors magically built in with a grand view of London, giant windows looking over the skyline. It's an especially beautiful sight during the evening, with the lights of the city making it seem a lot livelier than during the day. It's also easily the most modern house Harry has ever seen—Sirius enjoys the extravagances that Muggles have invented. You'll be hard-pressed to find any wizard owning a penthouse_ that_ luxurious.

Tom is decidedly put off at the notion of them having Muggle neighbours on the lower floors, but then again, Tom was never particularly fond of Muggles in the first place. Harry doesn't think much of it; from what he guesses, Tom's childhood at the Muggle orphanage probably has a lot to do with it. It's a topic he'd like to know more about, but Tom never seems interested in discussing it with him.

Eventually the sun is on its way down and Harry retreats inside. For the first time, the Burrow isn't such a blessing; with so many people in one house, it's difficult to get a moment to himself (and with a moment to himself, he means a moment to himself _and _Tom). Harry has yet to figure out what feels different about their relationship now, but what he knows is that somehow he's grown fonder of Tom in the last few weeks. It feels like a different kind of fondness, one he can't remember ever feeling before, but the effect is very mild and so he can ignore it for the most part, sparing no thoughts on it.

Certainly, having so few opportunities to be alone with Tom makes him appreciate the moments they do have all the more. It would be a lot easier if he could just tell Ron and Hermione, but as always, Tom won't have it (_'And then he calls me stubborn,' _has become a regular thought of his).

The days fly by in spite of it, and before he knows it, Sirius has moved into his new apartment, finalizing the process of getting back custody of Harry while the day of the Quidditch World Cup Finals draws closer.

And then Peter Pettigrew escapes, and the dream is shattered.

* * *

"I don't understand how he could've possibly—" Hermione goes into a rant, the Mystery of Pettigrew's Escape having occupied her for the past few days now. Harry is tired of hearing it. He already knows that the Ministry has balanced a fine line between incompetence and pure evil, so in honesty, he shouldn't even be surprised that the rat has managed to slip away.

Sirius hasn't been taking the news so well. For one, he practically stormed the Auror's Department yesterday and demand they go do something about it ("How about you get off your lazy arses and track this son of a bitch down?!" were his exact words, in fairness). Harry feels he should be as outraged as his godfather, but then again, he never wanted Wormtail to go to Azkaban in the first place, though having the man escape was far from the desired outcome.

There's nothing he can do about it anyway, so he figures it's better to focus on the positive instead of silently (or not so silently, in Sirius' case) fuming about it. It's not the most productive thing to do, and he's certain Wormtail will turn up eventually now that everyone knows of him being an Animagus. Everyone else reassures him of that as well—either way, he refuses this to ruin the outing to the Finals, as Sirius promised to take him there, though it is still a few days away.

No one really knows how Wormtail slipped away. He definitely had outside help, and it happened the moment he was to be transferred to the care of the Dementors as he'd been (predictably) given a life-sentence in Azkaban. Apparently, at the location of the transfer, someone made it past not only the magical wards but the several Aurors stationed there, conjuring a Patronus to throw off the Dementors and single-handedly overwhelming the guards long enough to escape with Wormtail and disappear. The identity of the attacker remains anonymous.

"Are you sure about this, Harry?" Hermione asks him as he prepares to move all his stuff from the Burrow to Sirius' penthouse, the morning sun shining brightly through the windows. "With Wormtail now having escaped… I don't know, it's not that I don't trust Sirius, but he's…"

"I know," Harry shoves the last item, a pair of old socks, into the trunk and shuts it with a loud _click_. "It'll be fine, it has wards all over the place; Dumbledore put them there himself."

"He did?" Ron whistles, impressed. "Well, you're all set to go then, aren't you?"

"That does make me feel a bit better, but Harry, Dumbledore isn't infallible, every ward has a weakness and, and… oh, just be careful!" She hugs him tight, her hair brushing against his face while Ron dramatically rolls his eyes, mock-gagging at the scene and making Harry grin.

His best friend helps him carry his trunk down the stairs to the ground floor where Sirius is waiting for him. Harry wonders why the man looks so tense, until he sees Mrs. Weasley there as well, lips pursed and arms folded across her chest. Whenever those two get together, they tend to end up in some sort of argument, most of them concerning Harry. It's all well-meant, but sometimes he tires of it.

A face he hasn't been expecting is there as well. Remus lingers near the doorway, watching Sirius with a frown that then disappears when he notices Harry, being the first to do so.

"There you are," his old Professor says with a smile, moving to take his trunk from him. "Excellent timing—had you been a moment later these two might have started a brawl." he mutters when leaning in to take the trunk's handle and Harry barely suppresses a laugh as a moment later Mrs. Weasley turns to him.

"Oh, Harry dear," she sighs in apparent melancholy, hugging him even tighter than Hermione had. "Leaving so soon! Well, you'll always be welcome here, you need only ask—"

"What he _needs _is to get going," Sirius interrupts coolly, greeting Harry with a casual pat on the shoulder, his hand staying there. Mrs. Weasley's eyes narrow but his godfather pretends not to have noticed, focusing his attention on Harry instead. "How've you been, Harry?"

"Good," Harry replies lamely, glancing from one parental figure to the other and sharing a look with Remus who seems to be feeling about as uneasy as Harry looks, shifting his weight around and fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.

"Ron, Hermione," The two are standing next to each other near the stairs, awkward due to the tension in the air. "Said your goodbyes?"

"Uh, yeah, but we'll be seeing you guys again at the Cup Finals, right?" Ron asks hesitantly, nervously glancing at his mother.

"Of course, wouldn't want to miss it for the world," Sirius replies with an easy grin, shoulders relaxing slightly. The time comes that they leave, and Harry is guided out the Burrow with Sirius next to him and Remus in front of him. He turns around to wave at his friends and really, his family, one more time before continuing the walk down the narrow, muddy path in between the large fields.

They slow down a bit and come to a halt when the Burrow is quite a distance away, and Remus and Sirius revive some sort of discussion they'd been having before they'd arrived. Harry had been wondering why they hadn't already Apparated to the penthouse, and he finds his answer.

"I appreciate the offer from before, Sirius, but—"

"No buts," Sirius cuts him off, appearing annoyed. "Really, first you spend weeks babysitting me, and now you can't wait to get rid of me, is that it? I'm hurt, honestly, this is going to be just another thing on a long list of things I'll need therapy for. My best friend rejected me, woe is my life!"

The sarcasm does nothing to help. Remus' frown only thickens. "The press is already hounding you for an interview—"

"_Hounding me_! Remus, was that a pun? You know I hate puns."

"—especially now with you regaining custody of Harry. Adding a werewolf to the mix would just make things worse."

Sirius' mocking look dissolves, an almost angry expression overtaking his face. "Damn it, don't define yourself as a _werewolf_! You're Moony first and foremost, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna let my friend sleep in that miserable shack you call a house. The _Daily Prophet _doesn't scare me."

Remus is silent, looking almost pained with his gaze fixed to the ground. Harry figures it's definitely not pride that keeps him from accepting—he really doesn't want to be a burden to someone. When he glances at Harry, the assumption is confirmed and the boy can't help but speak, chest tight with sympathy. He knows exactly how his former teacher feels.

"It wouldn't bother me at all," he says a bit clumsily, putting his emotions into words still difficult for him. "It sounds like a great idea, actually. I can't raise Sirius all on my own, he's a handful." He smirks, and considers it a victory when it is returned with a humorous, albeit faint, smile.

"Oh, so _you're _the parent now?" Sirius ruffles his hair. "I guess you'll be paying all the bills?"

"I didn't agree to that." Harry retorts wryly.

"And cooking all the meals?"

"You wouldn't want that. I'm a terrible cook. I'd probably poison you."

"Ha! I don't doubt that. I know how bad you are with Potions."

The light-hearted atmosphere is probably what does it for Remus. Even if the need to be independent is strong, the need for companionship is always going to be stronger. With a sigh, he gives in, and his moving into the penthouse is decided.

Harry really meant his joke about raising Sirius, anyway. Part of him is still unsure about how the man is faring emotionally, and if he were to have an outburst in the penthouse with just the two of them, Harry wouldn't have a clue about what to do or how to calm him down. Remus would know how to handle it—it's a mutually beneficial arrangement, really.

They Apparate to the lower floors of the penthouse as it has an anti-Apparition charm in it. They get weird looks when joined in the lift by other people—Remus and Sirius' style of fashion isn't exactly what Muggles are used to seeing.

In the uppermost floor, from standing in the corridor you would never imagine the penthouse to be altered by magic. It is only when stepping inside and seeing the stairs circling up in an elegant, metal spiral staircase to the second, third and fourth floors that one would notice that it should be impossible for all that space to fit in a single level of an apartment building.

The penthouse itself is very clean and crisp, the colour schemes light, the furniture all keeping a very modern style to it with soft shapes and expensive fabrics. The living room, dining room, bathroom and kitchen are all very modern, but the bedrooms are far more old-fashioned, mainly because of the magical items inside of them. Moving pictures and posters, ancient-looking books, writing desks with self-writing quills, cages for owls, brooms—it's like two different worlds in a single house.

Harry explored the place the first time they were there, and as this is his second time, he gets to pick his bedroom. He decides for the one on the second floor at the end of the hallway, that has a more open view on the streets down below instead of buildings. He likes to be able to watch the cars that pass by and the people walking; it adds a feeling of liveliness to the place.

Sirius picks his bedroom on the third floor, Remus' ending up somewhere across from him, as the second floor contains only a single bedroom with a very large study taking up the rest of the space as well as a spacious bathroom Harry now will have all for himself. It'll take a while to get used to, the double-bed and the huge curtain-less windows and just… all this _space_. All for himself. He's at a loss of what to do with it.

At least he'll have plenty of privacy here, should he need it.

* * *

Being dragged to shopping for clothes isn't exactly what he had in mind when he moved into the penthouse. It wasn't even on Sirius' insistence—Remus had noticed all by himself that Harry was still wearing the discarded, second-hand clothing of his cousin, and made Sirius take him out to the city.

As far as the Dursleys are concerned, he'll never see them again, and surprisingly, he's entirely apathetic with that knowledge. There's no sadness or happiness, just acknowledgement.

When it comes to buying clothes, on the other hand, there's definitely some sadness involved there, though it is mostly self-pity. Sirius took him to Muggle stores, but Harry doesn't have the faintest clue of what to buy when faced with so many options. It almost dazzles him.

Tom accompanies him as well, and he's no help at all. He's far too amused with watching an overly enthusiastic female employee saddle Harry with a mountain of clothes, most of which he doesn't even _like_.

The suit vests with ties are definitely the worst. Harry doesn't have the confidence to pull it off, not to mention that he doesn't like how tight it feels around the waist and he gets into trouble with the first tie he attempts to put on.

Standing in his little changing stall, he glares into the mirror as he tries to make the tie look like… well, what a tie should look like. The thing is, he has no idea how to fix it. It has turned into looking like a tie that's attempting to pass off as a bow tie, and he hasn't a clue how he managed to do _that_. Sirius' suggestions haven't been much better (ripped jeans and tees with obscure band names on them?) but the ties are really starting to tick him off and he curses the saleswoman and her persuasive smile

In the midst of his tie-related frustration, wishing he could use magic to solve this mess, he doesn't notice the curtain sliding open until he hears Tom breathe a chuckle.

"I was wondering what was taking you so long." Harry is certain he just broke a personal record for how fast his face turns red as Tom closes the curtain behind him. "The dreaded tie, is it?"

"What are you—" He nearly trips over his heels with how fast he back against the wall. "—doing here?!" He hasn't even buttoned up his shirt yet, for Merlin's sake!

Tom doesn't look at all concerned with the breach of privacy, nor bothered with the tiny amount of space in the stall that nearly presses them together. "Be quiet." he says evenly, eyes fixed on the mess that is Harry's shirt and tie.

Spindly fingers reach down to the buttons of said white dress shirt, making short work of it.

While Tom is entirely unperturbed, Harry feels like the world just turned upside down and he's hanging on the edge of it.

The proximity is almost suffocating. Every time pale fingertips brush over Harry's skin, he feels himself tense up more and more, and he's certain he's already stopped breathing. Tom merely looks focused on the task at hand, unaffected and oblivious.

How is he so composed? Or rather, why is Harry so unsettled? The situation might be a little weird, but it's nothing to get worked up over. Tom simply became impatient or bored and decided to help him out with dressing. It's not like he's zipping up his pants for him, right?

Harry's train of thought crashes into a mountain at that image and the scattered pieces of wreckage burn in his mental landscape.

"Now pay attention," Tom speaks softly and Harry's heart flutters, beating loudly against his chest.

He can hardly concentrate on the hands fixing up his tie for him, for multiple reasons. The first is that Tom is standing far too close for comfort and it's hard to look at anything but his face at this point, and somehow, he's even more handsome up-close. The second is that he can feel Tom's breath brush against his forehead and it's making his brain melt. The third is that he doesn't really care about the stupid tie in the first place and is more concerned about his ridiculous reaction at a situation that should be meaningless.

What is wrong with him?

"All done," Tom murmurs with a satisfied curve of lips that could've killed him, pulling away his hands and slipping out of the stall with the slyness of a cat.

He's alone now, suit vest and tie immaculate, leaning against the wall in a tiny stall, sweating, dizzy, hot, confused, frustrated, even more confused, heartbeat pounding, pants too tight for comfort, totally definitely completely confused, and absolutely lost.

Right then and there, Harry enters his first pubescent crisis.


End file.
